


You Can't Spell Compartmentalizing Without Coming Apart

by dancinbutterfly, returnsandreturns



Series: Boxes series [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alpha Foggy Nelson, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fingering, Anal Fisting, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotionally Repressed, Finger Sucking, Fingerfucking, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Feeding, Hurt/Comfort, Issues of Heat Consent, Knotting, Knotting Dildos, M/M, Masturbation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Matt Murdock and Foggy Nelson at Columbia, Medical Examination, Omega Matt Murdock, Porn with Feelings, Public Sex, Roommates, Scenting, Self-Lubrication, Sociological Implications, Therapeutic Fisting, everybody is suffering, heat consent issues discussed by both parties before decision is made, lots of suffering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-08-09 16:33:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7809142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancinbutterfly/pseuds/dancinbutterfly, https://archiveofourown.org/users/returnsandreturns/pseuds/returnsandreturns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Foggy doesn’t notice at first. It’s not unheard of for Matt not to show up at the dining hall for dinner except that he’s not at the library when Foggy swings by to grab him and make him eat. For awhile, he’s convinced that Matt’s probably off getting familiar with the beta girl that’s been flirting with him in their econ class but, when he gets back to their room, he sees Matt curled up in a ball on Foggy’s bed. </p><p>“You okay, buddy?” he asks, before the smell hits him, makes him go still and hot in an instant. Matt whimpers and stretches out a little at his voice, so Foggy can take in his forehead slick with sweat and his erection through his sweatpants. <i>Shit</i>.</p><p>“Not okay,” he says, hoarsely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Returnsandreturns:IT'S HERE. IT'S WRITTEN. WE DECIDED TO BREAK IT UP INTO CHAPTERS BECAUSE WE'RE MEAN.  
> Dancinbutterfly: Also because editing is hard.
> 
> This fic is the prequel to [Little Boxes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3928444). It was once described as _10,000 words of fraught masturbation_ , but now it is many more words and they definitely don't _just masturbate_ because Matt Murdock suffers in a really pretty way and Foggy can't help himself from helping.

Foggy doesn’t notice at first. It’s not unheard of for Matt not to show up at the dining hall for dinner except that he’s not at the library when Foggy swings by to grab him and make him eat. For awhile, he’s convinced that Matt’s probably off getting familiar with the beta girl that’s been flirting with him in their econ class but, when he gets back to their room, he sees Matt curled up in a ball on Foggy’s bed.

“You okay, buddy?” he asks, before the smell hits him, makes him go still and hot in an instant. Matt whimpers and stretches out a little at his voice, so Foggy can take in his forehead slick with sweat and his erection through his sweatpants. _Shit_.

“Not okay,” he says, hoarsely. 

“. . .what the hell, Matt,” Foggy says, hates the base animal dynamic pull that he feels to get his hands all on Matt, hard just from the smell. “You didn’t take suppressants?”

Matt moans and shakes his head, squirming around until he’s on his knees with his arms curled around himself and his face buried in Foggy’s pillow. His grey sweatpants are loose on his hips, dipping down over the curve of his ass where a damp spot is blooming out and darkening the fabric, now directly in Foggy’s line of sight.

“Shitty school insurance— I didn’t want to waste money and birth control is cheaper. I thought—” Matt starts, then stutters around a moan before he picks up, “I thought that way I could still be, you know, and then just deal with heat when it came, ignore it, but— Shit, I’m on your bed. I’m sorry, I just needed—”

Matt doesn’t finish his sentence, moves his head to the side and breathes in slow and deep before he sits up with a jerky motion and tries to move. Foggy goes on instinct, sinks down to touch Matt’s arm and say, “Hey, don’t move, it’s fine,” then drops his hand when Matt jumps at the contact. Matt’s hair is slick and standing up at weird angles, and he’s shaking, mouth wet and open as he angles his head towards Foggy.

“I can’t do this,” he says, hoarsely, bright red and hopeless.

“What can I do here, Matt?” Foggy asks, and Matt lets out a broken noise that might be a laugh.

He pitches forward a little to butt his forehead against Foggy’s shoulder, nuzzling up against his neck and breathing in. Before Foggy has a chance to react, pull Matt in and closer, Matt pulls away again with his face screwed up and says, “You should leave, I shouldn’t—”

“Yeah, I should definitely leave,” Foggy says, automatically, “because otherwise I’m gonna do something I regret.”

Matt’s face does something painful before he nods, whispers, “Yeah,” and crawls back towards the corner of Foggy’s bed, dragging sheets with him. He curls on his stomach again, hiding his face, and all Foggy wants to do is touch him—get his hands on his skin radiating heat even though they’re not even touching, lick out those moans from Matt’s mouth, feel how wet he is—

Yeah, okay, time to go.

“I’d only regret it because you’re too messed up to say yes to me,” he says, quietly, and Matt stills from where he was maybe unconsciously rubbing up against the mattress, hips slowly rolling.

“I’d say yes,” he says, muffled.

“Yeah, well, you’d say yes to any alpha right now, Matty,” Foggy says, and Matt snorts.

“Wow, thanks.”

“Am I wrong?” Foggy asks. Matt kind of shrugs, turns on his side so he can give Foggy the closest thing to a withering look that he can apparently muster, given the circumstances. “Look, have you ever been through this before?”

“Once,” Matt says.

“How did that work?” Foggy asks.

“I was ten,” Matt says, flatly.

“So—bad, then,” Foggy says. “Right. You were alone?”

“. . .yeah,” Matt says, after a beat. “I was.”

Matt wraps his arms around himself and digs his fingernails into his arm hard, which is probably Foggy’s cue to leave, if that’s what Matt’s doing to keep from touching himself. Foggy hesitates near the door, though, turning back to ask, “Do you have—you know, anything to help you through it?”

“What?” Matt asks.

“. . .I was trying to be delicate,” Foggy says. “We’re probably beyond that now. Toys? Sex toys?”

Matt blushes more and shakes his head.  

“Right. Okay, do what you have to do, Matt,” he says. “Stay in the room and don’t unlock the door. I’ll be back.”

Matt makes a low, miserable noise but doesn’t say anything else, so Foggy grabs his jacket and his bag and locks the door behind him as he leaves.

He just has to go to the single bathroom across the hall before he can do anything else, just to jerk off really quickly. His hands and clothes and everything smell like Matt and Matt smells like the thick, syrupy sex musk of omega slick that Foggy’s only smelled once and that was in high school after prom, salty sweat and pure intangible _need._ There’s no way he’s going to make it out of the dorm without doing something about it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he gets back to the dorm, he can hear Matt through the door by the time he steps off the elevator onto their hall. That doesn’t prepare Foggy at all for unlocking the door and seeing that Matt didn’t even manage to get undressed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Foggy's just doing what any bro would do for his bro in this scenario, okay, it's completely normal and has nothing to do with _feelings_.

After he’s run through the grocery store and filled up his backpack with non-perishables and a twelve pack of water bottles, Foggy texts a couple of omega friends from high school for help and to get recommendations about what the hell to actually do. He receives a few questions about who the lucky omega is, some teasing, and a safe sex warning or two he really doesn’t need before he finally gets a text from Sandra Gold, the omega he lost his heat virginity to in tenth grade--God bless her.

Sandra’s actually familiar with Morningside Heights thanks to her current enrollment over at the Jewish Theological Seminary, so her texts include the address to a nearby sex shop and a bunch of winking faces. That’s  how he ends up making a huge dent in his savings account to buy his roommate a desperation-fueled variety of sex toys. The clerk is eager to help and gives him too many options and he just kind of throws his card down on the counter and takes them all.

They don’t fit in his backpack. The clerk graciously offers to triple-bag them, for discretion.

When he gets back to the dorm, he can hear Matt through the door by the time he steps off the elevator onto their hall. That doesn’t prepare Foggy at all for unlocking the door and seeing that Matt didn’t even manage to get undressed.

Matt’s on his back with his sweatpants around his ankles, shirt rucked up over his stomach as he arches up trying for the deepest possible penetration with his own hand. He startles and falls back down with three fingers buried inside himself and slick visibly dripping down his knuckles when he hears Foggy, going even redder. 

“Sorry,” he says, voice wrecked. “I can’t—I can’t stop.” 

“Kinda the deal, Murdock,” Foggy says, as lightly as he can. He drops his backpack on Matt’s bed and pulls out a water bottle first, because Matt’s probably already headed towards dehydration at this point. Not because of how much wetness there is on the sheets and his hands, but. . .exertion. And sweating. Yeah. Foggy is  _ definitely  _ thinking about how Matt must need to refuel from that, not the loss of any other bodily fluids, when he asks, “Think you can stop for long enough to drink this?” 

Matt just shakes his head. His expression is torn between furious and despairing over the fact, though definitely closer to the angry side of the spectrum. 

Foggy takes as a good sign. An angry Matt is one who is still with him and as long as Matt’s still lucid, Foggy can stick to the business at hand without doing something silly – like panicking. Or pouncing. 

“Fair enough,” Foggy says, faintly. “You don’t have to stop, but head’s up, I’m on your left. There’s going to be some necessary touching, but I’m not getting fresh or anything.” 

He moves to sit next to Matt, hesitating before he touches his shoulder. Matt squirms to move closer immediately, letting Foggy pull him up so his head is resting in his lap, thrown back and panting as he fucks himself a little more frantically. 

Foggy is trying here. He is. But his brain short-circuits for a few seconds at how beautiful Matt is like this before he can get his shit together and force himself back into caretaker mode. But once he’s there, he’s focused, one hundred percent. 

“Open,” Foggy says, slides a thumb over Matt’s dry lips until he opens his mouth, licks out to taste Foggy’s skin before he lets him tip the water just enough that Matt can drink it without choking. Matt comes before he’s finished half the bottle, barely touches his dick before he’s grinding down on his fingers and letting out a hoarse yell.

Foggy sets the bottle aside to stroke his fingers through Matt’s hair until he’s finished, trying not to watch him multitask in what is possibly the sexiest way possible and mostly failing. When he’s done, Matt’s a mess, soaking the sheets underneath him and covered in his own come. It should be gross but the whole thing just makes Foggy want to get in close and smell his skin and lick him clean. 

Foggy can recognize that this is not a friendly and platonic instinct.  He should  _ probably  _ leave again soon.

“Sorry,” Matt murmurs, again, but he turns his face to nuzzle it against Foggy’s thigh. 

“Don’t be,” Foggy says. “Hey, I got you something.” 

Matt makes a sad noise when Foggy moves his head to lay it back against the pillow again and get up to rummage through the bag to pull out one of the toys. After a brief struggle with the packaging and a pair of cheap scissors, he pulls it out and moves back to the bed to press it into Matt’s free hand. 

“The lady at the store said it’s better than the real thing,” he continues, “because there’s no societal pressure and no chance of babies.” 

He  _ definitely  _ shouldn’t be bringing up babies, holy shit. Matt laughs, but it’s pitched and desperate, his fingers clenching around the toy. 

“You bought this for me?” he asks. 

“I bought you three,” Foggy says. “I panicked. Consider it an early Christmas present.” 

“Foggy,” Matt says, like he’s confused. Foggy watches as Matt’s wet fingers slip out of his hole, sliding over his stomach for a moment before he brings them up to run over the toy. 

“Give it a try,” Foggy says. 

“You shouldn’t have wasted your money,” Matt says, definitely caught somewhere between guilty and pleased. He doesn’t try to give it back, at least. 

“Sex toys are non-refundable, man. Might as well see if you still think it’s a waste after you try it,” Foggy says. He probably shouldn’t basically be telling Matt to fuck himself in front of him, but something about Matt’s hesitance makes his tone slip naturally from suggestion to order. He swallows hard. “I’ll make myself scarce, okay, just. . .give it a shot.” 

“Stay,” Matt says, then winces. “Please—you don’t have to touch me, just—stay.” 

“. . .okay,” Foggy says, because maybe they’ve only been friends a few months but he knows Matt wouldn’t ask for anything unless he really needed it. His pride is too powerful to be cracked by anything less than desperation. “I’ll stay. You should get—comfortable, probably, I think you’re gonna be here awhile.” 

Matt’s limbs look stiff and sore, held uncomfortably even though he’s laying down. If Foggy wasn’t weak, he’d offer him a massage or something, but he’s pretty sure that could only lead to bad places. Instead, he kneels next to Matt on the bed and says, “Too late for modesty, right? Let’s get your gross clothes off. Sit up for me, Matty.” 

He puts a hand on Matt’s back to help him sit up, and Matt keens softly just from that, being touched through his clothes. It looks like it hurts him just to move, so Foggy says, “Sit still, buddy, I got you,” and carefully pulls Matt’s shirt over his head and tugs his sweatpants off the rest of the way.

Matt sprawls back out when Foggy lets go of him, flushed pink down his chest as he feels across the sheets until he can pick up the toy again. 

“Do you think you can hold off for me for a minute?” Foggy asks. “I’m gonna get a washcloth, clean you up a little.” 

Matt’s fingers tighten around it but he nods, breathes out, “Yeah.” 

Foggy grabs a washcloth and goes to the bathroom to soak it in warm water, hesitating briefly before he turns the water on as cold as it goes and ducks his head underneath it for a long moment.

“Okay,” he says, to his reflection in the mirror, water dripping from his hair. “Be cool, Nelson.” 

When he gets back in the room, Matt’s huddled up on his side and breathing slowly in and out, like he’s trying to settle himself down. His hands are curled into fists, and Foggy touches one gently, breath catching when Matt opens it and laces their fingers together. 

God. This whole situation is stirring instincts that are  _ definitely  _ not platonic. He can make them work, though. He’s a good friend, his squishy feelings and traitorous libido be damned.

“You’re doing good, Matt,” he says, softly. He’s only done this with Sandra and they hadn’t held back - sixteen and giggly and sex-drunk and totally uninhibited in the throes of her heat. She’d liked encouragement, though, thrived on it. She told him in one of the lulls that the connection between sex and praise was just an “omega thing” and not to get a big head about the weight of his opinions. Still, it had been a valuable lesson; one Matt seems to be reaping the benefits from as he loosens with each word of support. 

Matt squeezes his hand for a moment before he lets go, sniffs and says, “Sorry.”

“Lay back,” Foggy says, pushing him gently, and Matt goes easily for him. He’s already hard again, and he’s shaking all over, hasn’t stopped shaking for a while. Foggy’s going to have to get some food in him soon, but for now, he sinks down onto the bed and continues, “I’m going to clean you up, okay?” 

Matt makes a soft agreeable noise, and Foggy smooths the washcloth over his stomach, down his hips, watches Matt bite his lip and arch his hips up just a little—like he’s trying to hold himself back. 

Foggy doesn’t let himself take it to heart. He’s in heat. Any alpha touch would be a balm to Matt right now.

“I’m going to stay, try to get some studying in,” Foggy says, casually, like he’s not contemplating whether he can touch Matt’s dick without it becoming a  _ thing _ . “If you want me here.”

“I do,” Matt murmurs and again, Foggy reminds himself, not personal. Not  _ real _ . Matt needs somebody and Foggy just happens to be that somebody. That’s all. 

“Then I’m here,” Foggy says. “Mind if I briefly get really personal in the name of cleanliness? I’ll be quick.” 

Matt smiles weakly, says, “Go ahead.” 

His breath picks up frantically when Foggy runs the washcloth carefully over his dick, down between his legs and over his hole—the smell is so thick in the air that Foggy can’t help but lean closer to feel the heat from Matt’s skin close to his. He tears himself away when Matt makes a broken noise, stands up and says, calmly, “If you want to move to your bed, I can wash the sheets.” 

“No,” Matt says, abrupt, then, “I mean, no, it’s—fine. They’re fine.”

“Okay,” Foggy says. “Whatever you want.” 

“I want this not to be happening,” Matt says, with a sharp laugh. It’s deeply reassuring after so much moaning, incoherent pseudo-conversation to hear a glimpse of the real Matt, the beautifully sarcastic one who always has a snappy comeback. 

“I know, buddy,” Foggy says. He picks up the toy and presses it into Matt’s hand, but they’re shaking so badly now that he can barely hold onto it, and he looks up to see Matt’s eyes are wet and red. 

“Could you—” Matt starts, mouth twists uncomfortably before he continues, stumbling over his words, “I’m  _ really _ sorry, I hate this, I know you don’t want—but could you help me?” 

The toy falls out of Matt’s fingers, and Foggy takes a deep breath, feels dizzy from the smell—rich and strong, draws out that thing inside him that’s wanted to get Matt underneath him from the moment they met, that’s wanted to keep him like that forever. But that thing? That thing, that possessive hungry alpha thing, can shut the hell up as far as Foggy’s concerned because Matt needs him and Foggy isn’t going to let him down.

“Turn over, Matt,” he says, and Matt moves too quickly to do so for how weak he clearly is right now, makes a sharp pained noise as his muscles pull and protest until he’s settled on his knees again with his head cradled in his arms. Foggy runs his hand over Matt’s back, and Matt lifts his hips up, doesn’t say anything but Foggy can see how slick his thighs are, how his hole is still open and wet from his own fingers. 

Foggy’s going to have to get some fresh air soon. 

“Okay, buddy,” he says, trying to sound as level-headed as he can when he’s so weirdly, intensely jealous of an inanimate object. “Are you ready?” 

“Yeah,” Matt says, muffled, a little miserable. “Please.” 

When Foggy slides the tip of the toy inside of him, Matt sighs out a breath that he was clearly holding in, pushing back to take more. It goes easy until it’s stretching Matt out around the knot at the end.

“’S fine, keep going,” Matt murmurs. 

Foggy takes a deep breath and regrets it, drawn in by the smell, the cling of sex and sweat on Matt’s skin. He shuffles in closer to rub at Matt’s hip, saying, shakily, “I’ve got you, I’ve—you’re doing so well, buddy.” 

When it’s fully inside him, Matt sobs and buries his face in Foggy’s pillow, says something that Foggy can’t make out and doesn’t ask him to repeat. Without realizing it, he’s gotten even closer, almost draped over Matt’s back, so he shuffles backwards and climbs off the bed. Matt makes a soft noise that he can’t translate and turns his head so that Foggy can see his face, mottled pink.

“Thanks,” Matt says, barely audible. He sounds almost drunk now, calmer and relaxed in a way he definitely didn’t before. It’s not like the toy is some magic bullet; Matt is still fucking himself like he can’t possibly stop but there’s a satisfaction in the movements that was lacking when all he had was his fingers to clench on. It’s. . . amazing what the right tool for the job can achieve, Foggy thinks a little dazedly.

“Any time?” Foggy says, weakly, drowning in the sight and smell of Matt. Yeah, he cannot stay here one second longer.  “I’m gonna—go put some laundry in, okay, I’ll be back in a few.”

He waits for Matt to make an assenting noise before he grabs the basket and makes it for the door just to drop the basket in the bathroom and jerk off in one of the stalls again. He’s pretty sure this is going to be happening at least a few more times, depending on how long Matt’s heat lasts.

Afterwards, he tries to wash Matt’s smell off his hands but it doesn’t work. It’s clinging to his skin, and he can taste it in his mouth, and, honestly, he’s  _ screwed. _


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Shit,” Foggy says, and Matt’s body sort of curves towards the direction of his voice, even though he doesn’t say anything. “I meant to give you lube. If you’re going to have to keep this up, it wouldn’t hurt to have a little extra help, right?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> miles to go before they sleep, y'all

When he comes back to the room, Matt’s on his back with his legs spread wide, back arched, one hand reaching under himself to push against the toy while the other’s wrapped around his dick, which is looking painful. He can definitely see the amount of work Matt puts in during the gym time which Foggy steadfastly refuses to join him in. The muscles in his stomach are defined and rippling with every thrust.  It’s a scene that makes Foggy’s brain light up in about seven different ways, least of which is detached awe at the acrobatics of the whole thing.

“Shit,” Foggy says, and Matt’s body sort of curves towards the direction of his voice, even though he doesn’t say anything. “I meant to give you lube. If you’re going to have to keep this up, it wouldn’t hurt to have a little extra help, right?” 

Matt makes a noise that could probably be read as agreement, so Foggy ducks under his bed to grab a bottle. 

“My time has come,” he says, forcing humor into his voice. There’s nothing funny here, not with the way the room  _ smells _ and the way Matt  _ looks _ glistening with sweat and. . .other things. Foggy isn’t thinking about that. He’s getting the lube. “If there’s any skill I can truly pass on to you, it’s comfortable masturbation,” he declares, coming up triumphant. The bottle is more than half-full. Thank god.  

Matt laughs, at least, which is a good sign that he’s maybe a little coherent.  

Foggy hovers near him for a long moment before he says, “I—your hands are kind of busy—should I?” 

Matt’s mouth falls open. On anyone else it would would be a dead-fish type of expression but on Matt it just looks hungry and desperate. He’s lost in himself for a moment before he chokes out, “Yeah. Yeah, please.”

Foggy settles onto the bed next to him on his knees. The mattress is moving as Matt’s motions get more frantic, so Foggy settles a hand on Matt’s shoulder to steady himself just to be met with a startled moan from Matt. 

“Sorry,” Foggy says because right. Fuck. Omega submission during heat is like the praise thing. Sandra told him about that, encouraged him to hold her down and push her around, albeit gently, but she’d wanted it anyway. She’d purred and nuzzled and breathed his scent deep when he did it. Combined, it always seemed like the smell revved her up again the most, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t making it worse in another way. Foggy figures this is the lesser of two evils. 

“Don’t be,” Matt replies, a little hysterically, turning to get his face closer to Foggy’s legs. “Feels good.”

Foggy pushes on his shoulder gently to keep him down, which elicits another moan. He can’t keep it up. He’s not Matt’s alpha, it’s not his place, but he can give this sensation to Matt for a few seconds, just while he’s helping. 

“Sniffing leads to bad places, man, trust me,” he says, softly, and Matt makes a sad face before he nods. “I’m just gonna—yeah.” 

He gets closer, one hand still pinning Matt down, to carefully drip lube onto Matt’s dick where his hand is still moving in a quick, desperate rhythm. Matt keeps nodding, says, “Thank you, that’s—thank you,” as Foggy quickly moves away again, stomach twisting at the look on Matt’s face when he’s no longer touching him. 

“I’ll leave the bottle next to you,” Foggy says. Matt looks so grateful that he’s on the verge of tears just because the edge of pain is eased. It twists Foggy’s heart to see because sex shouldn’t hurt, ever. It especially shouldn’t hurt Matt, stubborn, independent, kind Matt who always seems so surprised by laughter and joy when it sneaks up on him. “Use it all, if you need to. I’m just going to camp out on your bed and try to catch up on homework, okay?” 

“Okay,” Matt echoes, and Foggy stands and watches him for a handful of seconds before he tears himself away to get his books out and spread them open on Matt’s bed. Which, incidentally, also smells like Matt. It always smells like Matt, and it’s always kind of hard to pay attention to anything else when Matt’s in the room, because he’s sharply funny and fun to mess with and also Foggy is somewhere from mildly to severely in love with him - depending on the day. It’s just— _ way _ worse now. Obviously. 

“Do you think me reading aloud to you from this economics textbook will kill your boner at all?” Foggy asks, thoughtfully, because he hasn’t looked at Matt in approximately a minute and a half. When he spares a glance, Matt’s making a face at him from across the room, fingers loose around the base of his dick. 

“No,” he says, sadly. 

“Are you sure?” Foggy asks, stunned. “Because it definitely kills mine.” 

That is either twisted or a testament to the power of omega heat. He’d assume the latter but with Matt, he can’t genuinely tell. The guy has a hard-on for Thurgood Marshall, after all. Then again, he can’t actually see Thurgood Marshall in all his old guy glory and His Honor does have a great voice and. . .okay, Foggy’s brain is going off the rails. Matt is making him legitimately crazy. 

“Your voice,” Matt says, and his voice goes shy, maybe because Foggy’s making him talk while he’s jerking off, “would. . .definitely not kill it.” 

“Oh,” Foggy says. That is new information. Information that renders him silent for a long moment before he asks, “Is it an alpha thing? Or—”

A  _ me _ thing, he wants to say, but Matt’s turning away again. 

“Does it matter?” he asks, faintly, arching his hips up off the bed. 

“No, of course not,” Foggy lies, because he should be studying and not bothering Matt while he’s already suffering. “I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

“You don’t have to,” Matt says. “You can—you can read, if you want.” 

“I was joking, but—if it’ll help?” Foggy asks, then clears his throat when Matt nods. “Okay, but be prepared to be weirdly aroused by economic theory in the future, I guess.” 

Matt huffs out another laugh, gives him a weird pained smile, like he’s trying to comfort Foggy. Maybe he is. He shouldn’t have to so if he is strong enough to do that, then the least Foggy can do is try and help, so he opens his mouth and starts to read. 

If Matt groans out his name the next time he comes, Foggy doesn’t say anything about it. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This time, when he glances up at Matt, he notices mid-sentence that Matt’s clenching around the base of the toy and looking frustrated. There’s a flush across Matt’s entire chest and he’s breathing heavy, his pants just short of sobs.
> 
> To say it’s upsetting is putting it mildly. Foggy feels compelled to fix it. He’s always been a caretaker by nature and his alpha instincts are just exacerbating it. He has to do something. So he says, even though it’s awkward, even though it’s really not something a friend should be saying, “Uhm, I have another toy, if you want to try it. It’s—bigger. Wider.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> getting pretttttty close to breaking

They spend the next several hours like that. Foggy switches between reading from his textbooks and just talking, telling Matt stories and dumb jokes and anything to give him something to focus on other than what his body is trying to do to him.  Matt fucks himself and jerks off and comes so many times Foggy would lose track if he were counting, but he’s not.

He’s not counting because he’s trying to pretend like he’s not blatantly watching Matt. Which he kind of is, because he’s _terrible_ and also because he really can’t stop. It’s like that “Don’t think about polar bears” exercise. Every time he picks a nice, blank space of wall to focus on, his eyes naturally follow the desperate noises that Matt is making. Then Foggy’s whole body kind of follows them, especially his dick, but he lends up leaning halfway off the bed a few times, anyway. It’s taking a lot of will power to resist the urge to climb back into bed with Matt.

This time, when he glances up at Matt, he notices mid-sentence that Matt’s clenching around the base of the toy and looking frustrated. There’s a flush across Matt’s entire chest and he’s breathing heavy, his pants just short of sobs.

To say it’s upsetting is putting it mildly. Foggy feels compelled to fix it. He’s always been a caretaker by nature and his alpha instincts are just exacerbating it. He has to _do_ something. So he says, even though it’s awkward, even though it’s really not something a friend should be saying, “Uhm, I have another toy, if you want to try it. It’s—bigger. Wider.”

Matt’s hand slips away, dropping to the bed limp and pale. “Yeah,” he says. “ _Yeah_ , please.”

Foggy swallows hard. He can do this. He will not lose his cool.

“You got it, buddy,” he says with forced cheer. “While I get it, can you turn over for me again?”

He turns away so he at least won’t watch Matt do that, which is actually a mistake, because turning back after pulling out the other toy to see Matt with his arms curled around Foggy’s pillow and his ass in the air is a lot for him to handle.

He fumbles with the packaging for a good long time while watching Matt’s hips move but finally gets the toy out. It’s firm and heavy in his hand, a solid weight that he can just imagine inside Matt, pressing against his prostate and lubrication glands, the knot stretching his rim tight and _okay._ Yeah. That’s enough of that.

Foggy takes breath through the mouth because if he inhales through his nose he will smell more of Matt and that will do the opposite of calming him down. He takes two more for good measure before he moves to the side of Matt’s bed.

He smacks the dildo against his palm once, meaning it to be a joke but it makes a loud slapping noise. It makes him blush and Matt moans.

“Okay,” he says awkwardly. “Let’s do this.”

Matt bites back a noise that Foggy’s probably glad he can’t fully hear when Foggy brushes his fingers over the toy that inside of him, since Matt hasn’t bothered to bite back many of his noises up until this point. Neither of them are talking about why Matt doesn’t just take it out himself. He could, physically, but he doesn’t. When he manages to ease the knot out of Matt, though, he doesn’t bite it back, a high gasp and moan that goes straight to Foggy’s dick. It’s inconvenient that it’s timed with the toy slipping out of Matt entirely, soaking wet into Foggy’s hand, so he’s empty and dripping and open right in front of him.

Matt says, “Foggy,” softly and moves his hips back when Foggy’s fingers slip over his hole again to feel where the skin is slick and tender. Matt’s gaping there so much Foggy can’t actually believe what he’s seeing. He wants to lick into him, taste the fluid dripping out of him and down his thighs and cheeks until he’s clean and ready. He could dip his fingers in instead of just stroking across and it’d be nothing, no effort at all.

He doesn’t. He puts his palm on Matt’s side instead, steadying him.  “Yeah, Matt,” he murmurs. “Are you ready?”

“Yeah,” Matt breathes. There’s so much hope in that word, desperation, too, all for relief.

He hadn’t been kidding when he told Matt the new toy was bigger. It’s longer and thicker, with a bigger knot—the clerk had suggested buying multiple sizes, which was probably just to make her sales goal, but Foggy wasn’t exactly in a place to question her.

Matt’s hole gives easily when Foggy touches the toy to him. Matt makes a wordless plea, canting his hips towards the invasion and spreading his legs wider. When he pushes it into Matt, it sinks in smoothly in one gentle move that is barely even a thrust.

Matt draws in a deep breath and lets it all out at once, sounding weirdly content under everything else. Foggy lets his hands drop to from Matt’s side to his hip again to rub it soothingly, and Matt says his name again, rubs his face against Foggy’s pillow.

He feels overwhelmed by the impulse to kiss the back of Matt’s neck. He holds himself back by the skin of his teeth. He can’t stop himself from bending over Matt again though, pressing his clothed chest against Matt’s sweaty back.

It feels like Foggy’s being pulled in the more he touches Matt, and the more he gets pulled in, the closer he tries to get. It’s dangerous, and Matt’s breath is speeding up as Foggy slowly pushes the toy’s knot into him. Foggy feels fierce and dizzy at the same time.

“Matty,” he says, softly, when it’s completely inside of Matt.

“It’s good,” Matt slurs out. “Really good, Foggy.”

“Good,” Foggy repeats, his hand on Matt’s hip slipping down his thigh a little before he catches himself. Fuck, he should be— _better_ than this.  Everything he has every been taught, ever believed tells him that taking advantage of the vulnerable is wrong. Matt is in heat and that’s one of the most states vulnerable a person can be in.

He takes a deep breath and pulls his hand back. “I’m. . .gonna retreat now, okay, buddy?”

Matt makes an affirmative noise but doesn’t move. Foggy stumbles away from Matt to open their single tiny window before dropping onto Matt’s bed and clutching one of his textbooks. He opens it and watches Matt over the top of it as he stays on his knees, chest and face pressed up against the bed when he moves to get a hand back between his legs.

It’s silent except for the slick sound of Matt jerking off and the soft grunts he’s making until Matt asks, suddenly, quiet even in the silence, “Could you talk again?”

Foggy shuts his book.

“Of course,” he says. “Did I ever tell you about how my mom wanted me to be a butcher?”

*

They manage to make it well into the night like that, with Foggy going back and forth to get Matt to drink a protein shake and help him move when he gets cramps and occasionally sneaking to the bathroom to do something about his understandably traitorous dick. Eventually, Matt says, “Sleep, you should sleep,” interrupting Foggy in the middle of a particularly boring economics chapter.

“How do you even have a concept of time left, buddy?” Foggy asks.

“You keep yawning,” Matt says, dryly. Foggy loves that Matt can be sarcastic, even after everything. It’s somehow even more sexy than the smell and sight of him.

“Will you be able to sleep?” Foggy asks.

“Don’t know,” Matt murmurs. He’s not touching himself right now, curled in a ball and looking sore and sad and like he definitely needs a hug that it’s actually killing Foggy not to give him. He’s recovered enough from the last orgasm to talk a little, though. “You should, though.”

“I’ll try,” Foggy says, because it’s half past three, and while he’s definitely not going to go to class tomorrow, he’s also not interested in facing his burgeoning self-control issues without at least a few hours of sleep. “Wake me up if you need me.”

"Okay,” Matt mumbles.

“I mean it, Matt. Promise to wake me up if you need me.”

Matt gives him a wry, heartbreaking smile. “You want me to cross my heart?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

“I will, Foggy. If I need you, I will. Cross my heart.” To Foggy’s surprise, he actually lifts his shaking hand to his chest and crosses his heart. Then his hand drifts across to his nipple and starts to play with it as his heat-lust hits him again.

Foggy doesn’t sleep until Matt eventually comes again and passes out for awhile, stays under his blankets and tries to keep his breath steady and even so Matt won’t notice that he’s still awake. Once Matt’s as close to sleep as he’ll probably be, Foggy manages to slip off himself, at least for a few hours.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little after sunrise, Foggy wakes up to the sound of Matt moaning. He turns his head on the pillow to face Matt without opening them and groggily asks, “Still happening?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand we're back! :) :) :)

A little after sunrise, Foggy wakes up to the sound of Matt moaning.  He turns his head on the pillow to face Matt without opening them and groggily asks, “Still happening?”     
  
“Uh huh,” Matt grunts.  He’s sprawled out close to the edge of the bed, turned towards Foggy, who sits up with a yawn.     
  
“Well, good morning,” he says, and Matt makes a scoffing noise, which—yeah, fair. Not a good morning for either of them. “I guess it’s time for round two. Water?”    
  
Matt nods. 

Foggy hates the warm feeling he gets from providing this for Matt. He thought ahead to get the bottles and put them in the fridge and make them cold. He's able to give them to Matt when he needs it. The simple act of holding the water to Matt's lips is the act of a good alpha and it makes him feel proud and then immediately shameful because he’s definitely getting off on taking care of Matt when Matt is miserable. What kind of person does that? 

Him, apparently. He does.

He pushes the feeling down and they continue the routine for awhile. Foggy distracting and Matt writhing until Foggy trails off in the middle of a sentence from his economics book when he hears Matt make a choked noise, glances up to see his body hitch up a little before his eyes fill with tears. He’s holding back a sob, a real one, his whole body shivering with the effort.    
  
“Matt?” Foggy says.  The “are you okay” goes asked but he knows Matt can hear it anyway.

Matt makes a pained face, shakes his head.  “It’s fine,” he says. “It’s fine, I’m fine.” 

“Liar,” Foggy says. The sudden rush of affection he feels for Matt is a weird mix with  his overwhelming urge to fuck Matt until they both actually die. He stands up to move closer. Before he can announce his approach, Matt breathes in sharply, lets it out with a low moan. Right, heat-heightened sense of smell.    
  
“I can deal with it. I can,” Matt repeats, a little fiercely, like he’s trying to convince himself.    
  
“I know you can, Matt,” Foggy says as he settles down on the edge of the bed, listening less to his brain and more to literally everything else. “I’m just—I’m here.”    
  
Matt’s whole body moves towards Foggy when he turns his head towards him. “I shouldn’t be—fuck, Foggy, you smell so—”

As soon as Foggy reaches out to smooth a hand over Matt's shoulder, Matt takes that as permission to push forward, to butt his head against Foggy's thigh and bury his face against his hip. Foggy lets him, listening to the deep drags of air that Matt is taking against the fabric of his jeans. Matt nuzzles him until he's nosing between the juncture of Foggy's thighs. Alarm klaxons go off in his brain for a solid twenty seconds before Foggy musters the will to slide fingers into his hair and around his jaw to gently guide him away.    
  
Matt whines in the back of his throat. It could be protest but Foggy thinks it might just be from the fact that his fingers are still working their way through Matt’s hair that's stiff with sweat and traces of come. He really needs to get Matt into a shower, somehow.    
  
"You're allowed to not be fine,” he says, smoothing his fingers over the back of Matt's head and down his neck a few times because Matt makes a soft noise and goes a little slack, not so stiff.    
  
"You don't have to do this," Matt says, but he lets Foggy move him around until they're both more comfortable. That ends up with Matt draped sideways in his lap supine and very Michalengo-esque. He hides his guilty face against Foggy's stomach as his fingers slip down to circle his dick again.

“Yeah, but I want to,” Foggy says, letting his fingers trace down Matt’s spine a little. “Beats studying, at least.”

Matt snorts, curls his free hand around the hem of Foggy’s t-shirt. “No, it doesn’t. I promise.” When he turns his face again, Foggy can see that he’s still crying, and he moves to wipe the tears away with his thumb. Matt takes a shuddering breath before he says, “ _ Foggy _ ,” and lets out a sob that racks through his whole body. 

“I know, Matty,” he murmurs, skimming his hand over Matt’s back as he cries. He’s so beautiful like this, muscles slick with sweat and twisted up under the skin.  Foggy has to do something when he begs like that, so he digs his fingers into Matt’s tense muscles and tries to unlock them. Foggy’s pressing his fingers into a knot in Matt’s back when Matt comes again with a hoarse sob, arching and shaking as he shoots white over his fist and stomach and leaks slick over his thighs and the toy filling his hole.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, when it’s over, wiping his hand off on the sheets before he wraps his arms around Foggy’s waist. Foggy runs a careful hand over Matt’s back again and Matt surges forward to press his wet face into his chest. 

“Why do you keep apologizing?” Foggy asks, hugging Matt back, holding him up.

“Making you put up with this shit,” Matt says. “I—I’m in your  _ bed _ , Foggy.”

“I noticed. I glanced around, by the way, took in the whole scene.”

“This isn’t funny,” Matt protests but he’s smiling anyway. It’s just a little smile but it’s enough.

“No,” Foggy agrees with a sigh. “You never told me why--why you’re in my bed. Is it because of the smell?” Foggy says it carefully, wincing when Matt goes rigid. He knows how important scent is now but he tries not to get too hopeful, remembering everything he’d learned from Sandra. “You. . .started to say something about how I smell, earlier.” 

“Yeah,” Matt murmurs.

“What do I smell like to you, Matt?” 

Matt breathes in for a long moment before he says, in a long breath, “Like sex and home and. . . _ alpha—Foggy.  _ You should get—you should get away from me,” while he’s rubbing his cheek against Foggy’s chest. It’s not very convincing. 

The idea of Matt using him, his scent, to get off makes something warm and possessive shoot through Foggy.  It’s the proud alpha vibe, the guilty one from earlier that he likes way too much for his own good.   
  
“Does it help?” he asks, cradling the back of Matt’s head to hold him closer,. Matt settles and sighs even while he’s clenching around the toy inside him. Foggy’s fingers itch to touch it, push it further, help Matt fuck himself with it—but he thinks it might cross the really blurry line that he’s been trying to establish.    
  
“It’s better,” Matt says, laughing softly, “and— _ so _ much worse.”   
  
“So, I should keep it up?” Foggy asks.  Say yes, he thinks desperately. Please say yes.    
  
“Yeah,” Matt says, his grip in Foggy’s t-shirt tightening. If Matt were a little more lucid he would feel triumphant or excited. As it stands, he just feels relieved to have something to do to help. “Please—whatever you want.”   
  
Foggy wants a lot more than he can have, especially with Matt mouthing aimlessly at his skin through his t-shirt, smelling like—god, everything Foggy’s ever wanted, all the good things he can imagine.    
  
“I want you to eat something solid,” Foggy says. “I think that’s an achievable goal for tonight, right? Food?”    
  
“Uh huh,” Matt murmurs, and Foggy’s pretty sure that he didn’t even hear the question, because his hand has slipped down to rub against the sticky skin that’s stretched around the toy. Matt’s fingers just brush over his rim before he’s pushing it in deeper and groaning.  

Foggy watches him fuck himself kind of shamelessly, body rocking up against Foggy in time so the toy shifts as much as it can. Over the short months they’ve been living together, Foggy’s gotten used to the way Matt’s eyes never focused. The dazed quality they have now, sex addled and drunk, is a different and unsettling type of blindness. He’s hypnotized by it  for a few long moments before he says, “. . .right, okay, food.”

He tries to move Matt off of him but he clings and says, “Never mind, no food,” because apparently he heard but just didn’t actually care.    
  
Foggy laughs and says, “Surrogate cuddle this pillow for a second, Murdock, I just need to grab something,” sighing when Matt still doesn’t let go of him, his free arm wrapped around Foggy. Matt’s grip is weak, which is understandable given the circumstances, but Foggy’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to just push Matt away.  The thread between them seems both too important and too tenuous to risk breaking with something like that.   
  
Instead, he tightens his fingers in Matt’s hair again and says his name firmly, an order. Matt goes still.    
  
“Sorry,” he says, faintly, looking contrite and letting go of Foggy.    
  
“No more apologizing,” Foggy says, petting his hair. “New dorm rule. No apologizing for needing help.”    
  
Matt’s gonna break that rule within the next ten minutes, probably. He nods anyway and holds onto the pillow that Foggy gives to him before Foggy stands up and goes to sort through the food that he bought.

Matt’s half-hard again by the time that Foggy turns back to him, curled on his side with his arms around the pillow, rutting up against it. He looks even more out of it than before, murmuring something so softly that Foggy can’t make out between gasps of breath.    
  
“Shh, come here,” he says, climbing back onto the bed with a box of protein bars and more water. He has no illusions that they’re going to go for anything other than strict survival at this point; Matt’s only barely able to talk after he’s come, and even then, his speech is heavy and slurred. He reaches for Foggy without hesitation, trembling arms moving to pull him in. Foggy wraps a hand around one, moves Matt so he’s half-sitting up with his back against Foggy’s chest and his legs sprawled out in front of him.    
  
Matt cries out at the way the toy moves inside of him, pressed up against the bed, squirming to chase the feeling until he settles down more.    
  
“Foggy,” he murmurs, asking for something that Foggy wants to give more than he’s ever wanted anything in his short life.    
  
“Do you want to feed yourself, Matt?” Foggy asks. Matt doesn’t answer, ducks his head and frowns. Foggy brushes fingers over his cheek to feel how warm it is and says, again, “Matt.”    
  
“I can try,” Matt says because Matt is more stubborn than his nana on a tear over why St. Christopher should be recanonized. He’s stubborn to his marrow and he’ll tough just about anything out. He’s had to to if the tiny slivers of information Foggy’s picked up about his post-Jack Murdock childhood are any indication but he doesn’t have to be now, not with Foggy  

Matt’s silent again, lolls his head back against Foggy’s chest. He’s not touching himself, fingers clenching at his sides. 

“I asked if you  _ want _ to,” Foggy says with gentle force. He hates when Matt does this, pushes his desires down. He does it with stopping for food when he’s studying, with going to sleep when he’s tired and of course with asking for help when he needs it. 

“No,” he says, eventually, quiet. 

“Okay,” Foggy says, moves them around so Matt’s head is tucked up against his arm instead. Matt raises his face towards him a little, looking overwhelmed as Foggy opens one of the bars and breaks off a piece.

When he touches the bar to Matt’s mouth, Matt sucks both skin and food inside. His tongue twists around his fingers and he moans, around the mouthful. Then he pulls off and winces, licking his lips. 

“’S. . .a  _ lot _ ,” he murmurs. 

“Got it,” Foggy says. “You don’t have to stop, you know.” He waves a hand down at Matt’s naked groin. “If it’s hurting. I’m in this for the long haul, okay, feel free to get back down to business while I romantically feed you.” 

A smile ghosts across Matt’s lips.

“If you say so,” he murmurs, stretching his fingers out before they drift back down to find the bottle of lube. 

“I do,” Foggy says. “Open up.” 

Matt takes the first few bites with his teeth, but then Foggy’s fingers slip against his tongue and Matt licks around them. Foggy pushes them in further on pure instinct, and Matt makes a needy noise and sucks on them, trapping them with his teeth when Foggy starts to pull them out.

“You’ve got to finish this,” Foggy says. “My fingers aren’t nutritionally sound.” 

Matt pouts a little, which is—fucking cute, honestly, pretty adorable even when Matt’s all sex-crazed and sticky. Matt opens his mouth again, risks small licks to Foggy’s fingertips as he finishes feeding him the rest of the bar. 

“There we go,” Foggy says, tossing the wrapper aside and running a hand over Matt’s head. “Staved off death for another day.”

Matt nods, eyes shut, fingers slick with lube and wrapped around the base of his dick, unmoving.

“What’s up, buddy?” he asks, softly.

“I want it to stop,” Matt whispers, and it twists at Foggy’s heart. There’s a mess of stuff happening in his head right now, his normal feelings for Matt all caught up in the intertwined smell of them, the feel of Matt in his arms, the overwhelming power-trip of Matt  _ needing  _ him. 

“I know, Matt,” he says, smoothing a hand up and down Matt’s arm. “You’ve just gotta keep going for me, okay?” 

“For you?” Matt asks, with a funny half-smile.

He doesn’t know what it means because that is not one of Matt’s expressions he’s had a chance to catalogue and study before. Unfortunately, now isn’t the time to try and translate it. 

“Yes,” Foggy says, gravely, hand stopping to squeeze Matt’s elbow. “Please continue jerking yourself off as a personal favor to me.” 

Matt huffs out a laugh and starts to move his hand, sinking down further until his head is in Foggy’s lap again, his face pressed up against the inside of his thigh. He murmurs Foggy’s name.

It’s hot like burning and Foggy sublimates the desire to rut into that pretty face by running his fingers through Matt’s hair. “Shh. Keep going.”

Matt is rolling his hips, lifting them up off the bed before sinking down, again and again, off-time with the shaky movement of his hand. Foggy rubs at his shoulder, leaves his other hand in his hair because it makes Matt’s face look less distant. 

“You’re so strong, Matty,” he murmurs. “You know that?”

Matt shudders and reaches up to grope against Foggy’s chest, hand sliding up until he can run his fingers through Foggy’s hair, tangle them in it and hold on. It seems like a good go-ahead to keep talking, so Foggy does, says, “ _ So  _ strong, buddy, you’re gonna get through this. You’re doing so well. 

“Yeah?” Matt murmurs, turning his head again so his face is raised towards Foggy.  

“Yeah,” Foggy breathes, because Matt is—out of it, absolutely  _ gone. “ _ You’re so good, Matt.”

  
Matt’s breath hitches again, and Foggy lets his fingers slip from his hair down to his neck, rubbing the skin there gently so Matt’s mouth falls open. He doesn’t make any noise, just pants wetly, tightens his fingers in Foggy’s hair to drag him down a little closer.

Foggy’s not so sure how long his self-control is going to last here, not when Matt’s stopped touching himself to try to sit up to get his face closer to Foggy’s—to kiss him, maybe, or do something else that will make Foggy give up to his instincts and probably ruin everything. 

“Stay down,” he says, pushing gently at Matt’s shoulder. Matt lets out a harsh breath but goes down easily. “Keep touching yourself for me, Matt, okay?”

Matt makes a guttural  _ uh huh _ noise, nods his head before he shoves his face back against Foggy’s stomach, nips and bites gently at Foggy’s skin through his t-shirt. Foggy should probably be trying to distance himself, at least mentally, think about things that are definitely not Matt immediately following his order and wrapping his hand around his dick again—instead, he says, “Good, good, Matty, just like that,” and he watches him, moves his gaze back and forth between his face and his hands.

This is the first time in since the whole miserable ordeal began that Matt’s actually seemed to be enjoying himself. Sure, he’s come so there must have been pleasure before but this is different. Now, close like this, all pliant and obedient, Matt seems to have unwound somehow. He looks more like Sandra had as she had in her words “embraced the experience” which Foggy hadn’t understood before now.

Matt says, “Foggy,” and it barely even sounds like his name, just a mess of syllables.

“I’m here,” Foggy says, petting his hair. “Are you close?” 

Matt nods, an erratic little jerk of his head. 

“Keep going,” Foggy says, and Matt moans, moves to try to pull himself up again. Foggy hesitates before he helps him, asking, “What do you want, Matt?” 

“Closer,” Matt murmurs, and then he’s turning around agonizingly slow to crawl into Foggy’s lap, slip an arm around his waist and rub his dick up against Foggy’s stomach. It makes Foggy want to take the toy out and let Matt ride him until he  _ cries _ again, which is— _ fuck _ — so bad. “Can—can I—”

“Yeah, come here,” Foggy says, trying to sort through what’s going on in his brain and keep himself steady as Matt starts to rock forward, rubbing himself off against Foggy. Matt’s smell this close, his face buried against Foggy’s throat, is too much.Foggy continues babbling, intoxicated on the smell of pre-come, slick, sweat, “Shit, you smell so—god, you’re kinda killing me here, dude.”

“Sorry,” Matt whispers.

“No apologizing, remember?” Foggy chides in what he hopes is a teasing tone. It probably comes out strangled and desperate considering how turned on he is. “Are you gonna come for me, Matty?”

He feels Matt’s hand slip between them, and then Matt’s choking out a, “Yeah,” while Foggy wraps his arms around him tighter and murmurs nice things close to his ear. There is—there  _ was _ a line, and Matt basically getting off by rubbing against Foggy probably crosses it but that’s Matt’s choice.At least Foggy’s just hugging him, just talking, just—   
  
Yeah, that’s weak logic there. He’s still complicit as hell because there was  _ definitely _ a line at one point, and it didn’t involve Matt naked and straddling his lap. Foggy should probably just admit that.    
  
Matt’s grunting with his mouth open at Foggy’s throat, a hint of teeth that sends a shiver through him, that makes him dig fingers into the muscle of Matt’s back where it’s slick with sweat. He jerks his head back to keep himself from being tempted because teeth during heat are bad. Sandra had almost slapped him when he got too toothy once, apologizing afterward for with the warning that a little nibbling could lead to a lot of bonding. So no teeth, not from him and not from Matt. He can’t make him make the rest of him pull away though.    
  
“I’m,” Matt sobs out, like a warning, like Foggy would even consider pushing him away at this point.    
  
“Do it,” Foggy says, surprised by how fierce his voice sounds, the way his body rocks up to meets Matt’s thrusts as Matt cries out and comes between them.

Matt collapses in Foggy’s arms, trails his mouth up until it’s resting against Foggy’s neck. Foggy gets light-headed, so hard that he can’t get the sounds that Matt was making against his skin out of his head, can’t stop imagining the noises he’ll make when he’s knotted—   
  
If. That should have been an  _ if _ .    
  
“I just need some air, Matt. I’ll be right back, I promise,” Foggy says, holding him close for a moment before he helps Matt lay back. Matt’s too tired to really protest, maybe on his last leg for awhile. He’s already passed out a few times since this started, something like sleep but not quite, enough to survive but not deep enough to keep him from making noises that sat low in Foggy’s stomach and rutting up against the sheets. He just says Foggy’s name softly and stays exactly where Foggy leaves him.

There’s too many people in the bathroom for him to jerk off again.Instead, he just does his best to clean Matt’s come off his t-shirt and washes his hands until they’re red and sore before he goes to open a window in the common area and stick his head out of it. 

It doesn’t really help.

Matt’s asleep when he comes back—or close to it, at least, curled in a ball with his face hidden in Foggy’s pillow, arms wrapped around himself. He’s moving minutely, half-hard and strained, but his face is lax in unconsciousness and his chest is rising and falling slowly. 

He stirs a little when Foggy shuts the door behind him but doesn’t wake up.  Foggy moves quietly to take the blanket from Matt’s bed and drape it over him, smoothing his hand over Matt’s hair when he grunts softly. Matt moves a little closer in his sleep, moving enough that Foggy can see his face shift from pained to something like peaceful.

When he manages to tear himself away, Foggy gets his laptop and climb onto Matt’s bed to look some stuff up now that he doesn’t have a lapful of Matt. It takes a lot of circling around heat porn and Cosmo articles and useless sexist myths to actually get to anything medically relevant. Even then— _ consult your doctor _ is a pretty hard rule to follow when you have no insurance and you’re too fucked up to walk to the clinic. Getting through this until Matt can stand up on his own’s got to be the best option right now. 

Getting fucked seems to be the Internet’s favorite solution to this problem, though, which is—a good solution, honestly, a  _ great _ solution if they’d planned it at all. 

Foggy’s pretty sure that  _ take a cold shower and hope for the best _ , which is advice he culled from a really terrifying Ask Reddit thread, was mostly a joke, but that’s pretty much what he’s settled on if things don’t let up a little soon. He shuts the laptop quietly and checks on Matt one more time — still passed out, sprawled out on his back, barely squirming now — before he turns the lights off.

On impulse, sheer impulse, Matt’s smell and Foggy’s hormones absolutely to blame and definitely nothing else, Foggy leans down to press a kiss to his forehead. 

Matt moans in his sleep and tries to wriggle towards the contact. Foggy retreats immediately, crawling into Matt’s bed and pulling his sheets around him, covering his head and trying desperately to ignore his erection. It’s definitely not cool to jerk off to your roommate while he’s sleeping beside you. 

Well, probably it’s a forgivable offense, given the circumstances. It’ll help him sleep, at least, and—well, Matt would understand.  Matt’s big on forgiveness, with the Catholicism and all. 

Matt moans again, a low desperate noise slipped under soft snoring. That’s all it takes to get him where he needs to be. Foggy murmurs, “Fuck, I’m terrible,” before he licks his palm and reaches for his dick.

He’s got his face buried in Matt’s pillow and Matt’s name on his lips when he comes, wiping his hands off on Matt’s sheets because they’re going to have to do so much laundry that it doesn’t even matter anymore.

He falls asleep quickly, feeling exhaustion pulling him down.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Okay,” Foggy says, running a hand over his back and trying to hold back the hysterical voice he’s about to slip into. “This is getting worse. This is getting way worse, isn’t it?”
> 
> Matt nods. That was worst thing he could do because Matt didn’t admit defeat.
> 
> Cold shower. Cold shower and hope for the best. That’s where they are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :) :) :)

Foggy wakes up to Matt crying in the morning, a quiet sob. It gets him out of bed immediately and to Matt’s side, saying, “Hey, Matt, Matty,” groggily. Matt’s still twisted into a painful ball, blanket kicked off and abandoned on the floor. He’s got a hand on his dick but he’s barely touching himself, and Foggy’s pretty sure that it’s because his hands are shaking so badly that he can’t coordinate himself enough to do anything. 

It’s not good.

“Tell me what’s happening, Matt,” Foggy says, sinking down on the bed next to him. “How are you feeling?”

Matt just sobs again, but he uncurls enough to get closer to Foggy, shove his face against Foggy’s stomach. When he did it last night, Foggy thought it had been about sex but now he thinks it’s much simpler than that. This is about comfort for Matt, a seeking relief from pain. His own discomfort isn’t enough for Foggy fight the instinct to pull Matt in. Matt tries to say something but stumbles so much over his words that Foggy can’t even understand him. 

“Okay,” Foggy says, running a hand over his back and trying to hold back the hysterical voice he’s about to slip into. “This is getting worse. This is getting way worse, isn’t it?” 

Matt nods. That was worst thing he could do because Matt didn’t admit defeat. 

Cold shower. Cold shower and hope for the best. That’s where they are. 

“Okay, up, let’s test your sea legs, Murdock,” Foggy says, wrapping his arms around Matt to try to pick him up. 

Matt is the exact opposite of helpful, pulling Foggy back down, fingers gripping his hair. He buries his face into Foggy’s neck, breathes in shakily.

“Right,” Foggy says. “Okay. Trying again.” 

He pulls Matt up by his waist, stumbling backwards until they’re momentarily standing. That lasts for about twenty seconds before Matt’s legs give out underneath him and they both sink to the floor. Matt mumbles something that sounds like  _ sorry _ , and Foggy shushes him, hugging him for a second because Matt’s an upset tangle of shaking limbs on top of him. 

Matt rubs up against him as much as he can, trying to get friction that Foggy desperately wants to help him with—instead, he says, “Okay, buddy. We’re getting there. I think we need help, though. Can you let go of me?” 

Matt shakes his head, and Foggy laughs, pitched and kind of scared.

“I don’t believe you,” he says. “Let’s test it out.” 

He stands up and Matt clings to him for a moment before he lets his arms drop and he slides to the floor again, yelping when the toy shoves up further inside him. He turns onto his knees and touches his flushed face to the cold floor. It puts him in the present position which Foggy has to back away from, fast.

“Okay, Matty, give me five minutes.” 

“No,” Matt protests, more of a groan than an actual word. 

“Five minutes,” Foggy repeats, slipping out the door and locking it behind him. 

He takes a deep breath on the hallway before he starts knocking on doors, going down the list of people he can vaguely trust enough to help them before he finally ends up at Marci’s door. Not that he doesn’t trust Marci—Marci is beautiful and terrifyingly capable and fiercely protective of the people that she loves and tolerates—but there are  _ feelings _ involved in this mess. Marci is not usually very helpful when it comes to emotions.

She smiles like a shark when she opens her door. 

“You smell  _ interesting _ ,” she says. 

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he says. “Can I come in for a second?” 

“Absolutely,” Marci says. She inhales pointedly as her teeth flash at him.

“I’m sure it will take more than a second, though, don’t underestimate yourself.” 

“No, no sex, definitely no sex,” Foggy says.

“Well, somebody’s been having sex, and it sure seems like it’s you.” 

Foggy collapses on Marci’s desk chair and says, despairingly, “Nope,” and then explains the entire messy situation. Marci watches him with a straight face before she puts her hands on her hips and cocks her head.

“Uh, why don’t you just fuck him?” she asks. 

“Because I walked in on him mid-heat,” Foggy says, “and I’m trying not to be an asshole. Did you skip all those seminars during orientation about respect and consent?” 

“Did you skip the part where you’re completely gone for each other?” she asks, snorting. “The whole floor’s been waiting for you two to get it over with. Personally, I bought earplugs.”

Foggy regrets this decision. 

“We’re friends,” he says, firmly. “I want to stay friends.” 

“Alright,” Marci says, sighing. “I guess Murdock’ll just suffer. Let’s go.”

Matt’s half-passed out on the floor when they get back to the room, moaning softly, toy still inside of him even though he’s no longer holding onto it. His hips are still moving fractionally. 

Beside him, Marci raggedly drags in the sweet smell of Matt’s heat then lets out a long breath. “Wow. Okay. Your self-control’s impressive.” 

“Yours better be, too,” Foggy says, leveling her with a look, and she snorts. 

“Yeah, you’re not his alpha  _ at all _ ,” she says. “Put your hackles down, I’ll be good.” 

Foggy moves to kneel next to Matt on the floor, putting a hand on his shoulder. Matt whimpers and shifts towards him. “Matt, Matty, we’ve got to get you into a shower. I got somebody to help.”

Matt just murmurs, “M’fine,” and doesn’t move. 

“Alright, we’ll just have to—” Foggy starts, hesitating before he leans down to carefully pull the toy out of him, biting his lip at the sobbing noise Matt makes. He wraps his arms around Matt to pull him up so he’s sitting and Matt falls into him heavily, nuzzling into Foggy’s neck. “Okay, look, buddy, Marci from down the hall’s going to help me get you cleaned up because I can’t hold you up myself.”

Matt gives no indication that he heard, too busy mouthing at Foggy’s skin and murmuring his name. When he looks back, Marci’s giving him a pointed look. He glares back.

“Just help me,” he says, and she rolls her eyes but moves to do so. They get on either side of Matt to lift him to his feet, wrapping a towel around him for some semblance of dignity before they basically drag him to the showers. 

Matt doesn’t seem to know what’s going on, but he doesn’t fight them until he’s actually in the shower—cold water making him jolt and jerk away, falling backwards against the wall. They’re both still holding him up, fully clothed and soaked while Matt’s naked and shivering. Matt blinks through wet lashes at Foggy with his slightless eyes and pleads, “Foggy— _ Foggy _ ? Who—”

“It’s me, Matt, I’ve got you,” Foggy says. “Marci’s here to help.” 

Matt’s face looks stricken, and he shakes his head. “No.”

“Yeah. It’s going to be okay.”

“No, no, Foggy, please. Please don’t. I don’t need help. Just you. Just you, please,” he whimpers, still sounding completely out of it, before he sinks to the ground. Maybe he just lost his legs or something but he looks like he’s trying to get smaller, get away. After a second he actually curls into a fetal position on the disgusting floor and Foggy knows that Matt hates the bathroom tile, is constantly complaining about how gross it is.

Foggy glances over at Marci, who is frowning which for her is positively stricken. 

“He thinks you want to  _ share _ ,” she whispers. “The  _ fuck _ , Nelson?” 

“Share?” Foggy asks, pulling a face. He glances down at Matt who winces away, shaking his head, still mumbling dissent. 

Marci stares at him then sighs, flipping wet hair away from her face.

“How naïve are you, Foggy?” she says. “There are lots of assholes who ‘convince’” she uses air quotes, actual fucking air quotes, “Their omegas to let other alphas use them during their heat because they can get away with it. They get away with that shit because omegas always say yes at the time. They want to get fucked too much in the moment, so who cares how an omega feels about it when they’re sober, right? ” She folds her arms over her chest and glares at him. “It’s like the foundation of modern predatory pornography and trafficking. Honestly, Nelson, read a book.”

Foggy feels his stomach sink. He knew people took advantage of omegas but he didn’t think the sort of thing Marci was describing was anything but a bad porn scenario. The way Matt was reacting, though, couldn’t be anything but genuine and it was fucking awful.

“ _ Matt _ , no, no,” Foggy says, dropping to his knees in front of Matt to carefully slide a hand down his arm, stopping to lace their fingers together. “Marci’s just here to help because I can’t hold you up on my own, I promise. You’re safe.” 

“You’re safe, Murdock,” Marci repeats, voice a little softer than normal, keeping her distance on the other side of the stall. “I have no interest in you or being a part of this weird little two-person soap opera you two are having.” 

Matt doesn’t say anything, face ducked down towards his knees.

“Do you want us to—give you a second, Matt? Leave you alone?” Foggy asks, reaching for something to do in this situation besides press forward, but Matt just makes another startled noise and grabs his t-shirt and holds on. Foggy squeezes his hand. “Okay. I’m going to wash your hair while you’re down here, but I’m going to need you to let Marci help you stand up in a minute. Nothing sexual. Just getting you clean.”

Matt still doesn’t say anything or even raise his head. Foggy feels sick and guilty at exactly the same time as he wants to pull Matt close and rub up against him until he doesn’t smell like Marci anymore. 

Marci passes him the shampoo, Foggy’s shampoo, and Foggy lets go of Matt for long enough to put some in his hand before he carefully slides his fingers into Matt’s hair. After a few moments, Matt murmurs his name and reaches up to try to pull him closer, says, “Just you,” again, almost hopeful. Foggy wants to throw up a little.

“It’ll be just us soon, Matty. You’ve gotta keep your hands to yourself for a second, though, and let me finish,” Foggy says, taking Matt’s wrists to pull his arms down carefully, lay his hands flat on the ground at his sides. Matt’s fingers clench but he keeps them there, moaning quietly as Foggy washes the shampoo out of his hair, fingernails scratching at his scalp.

“Okay,” Foggy says, smoothing his hand over Matt’s hair. “We’re both going to help you stand up, Matt, but that’s it.”

He can’t read the look on Matt’s face at all, but he motions Marci forward anyway, and she comes hesitantly to take Matt’s arm. Matt’s face shifts into a grimace but he leans against her despite that when Foggy asks him to. 

“You’re doing good, Matt,” he says. “Just a few more minutes.” 

He washes Matt off carefully, get traces of dried come that wouldn’t just come away with a damp washcloth off of Matt’s skin, cleans Matt up until he’s shivering in the cold water. 

“Uh, Nelson,” Marci says, nervously. Marci doesn’t do nervous and Foggy’s heartbeat has already triple timed by the time he looks up from where he’s kneeling in front of Matt to see that Matt’s crying again.

“Matt,” he says, standing up again.

Matt shakes his head miserably and sinks farther against Marci, turns his face towards her and ducks his head to press his forehead against her shoulder and breathe in deeply. Marci draws in a sharp breath, and the whole scene makes something dangerous and possessive shoot through Foggy, something like a growl resting in his throat.

It’s the first time in his life that he’s ever understood the whole “alphas are animals” mentality because, yeah, he feels like an animal right now--because his brain is screaming at him that, if she doesn’t move, he should try to rip her in half and yet none of that changes the fact that he  _ likes  _ her. It’s a terrifying feeling. 

He must be pretty disturbing from the outside, too, because Marci says, heavily, “Yeah, _ I _ should go.” She jerks her chin at Matt. “I think he’s clean enough. Can you—”

Foggy steps in to wrap his arms around Matt and hold up his weight, and Marci slips out, calling softly behind her, “I’m going to check on you soon, I expect to find Murdock safe and happy.” 

Matt moans softly, squirming in Foggy’s arms, dead weight pulling him down until they’re sitting on the floor of the shower again with the water beating down on them. Foggy reaches up with one hand to turn the knob so it gets a little warmer.

“It’s just me,” he says. “It’s just us, Matt.”

“Foggy,” Matt murmurs. He raises his head a little, enough that Foggy can see tears in his eyes, can see up close just how exhausted he is. It makes Foggy ache to actually do something about it.

“Just us,” he repeats, and Matt looks dazed and almost happy before he’s pushing up to kiss Foggy on the mouth, shaky fingers tangling in his wet hair. It’s messy and off-center until Foggy turns his head into it instinctively, kissing back, licking into Matt’s mouth to catch the taste before he pulls away with a gasp. His hand is digging into Matt’s shoulder, thumb sliding against his neck. 

“Matt,” he murmurs. “We shouldn’t, we really shouldn’t.”

“I’m sorry, I know you don’t want me. I’m just. . .having impulse control issues,” Matt says, barely gets the words out as he’s nosing against Foggy’s cheek, down to press his face into Foggy’s neck. 

“That’s what you think?” Foggy asks.

Matt doesn’t answer, but that’s enough. 

“Matt,” Foggy says. “I’ve wanted you since I met you. I’m  _ dying _ for you now.”

Matt goes still before he leans up and kisses Foggy again, softly, nudging their foreheads together.

“Want you,” he says. “ _ Always _ , Foggy, believe me.”

It would be sweet, if Matt wasn’t also climbing into Foggy’s lap, getting his hands underneath Foggy’s shirt. As it is, it’s enough to make something snap in Foggy’s brain when their erections brush together, something that has him laying Matt down on his back and climbing on top of him to kiss him roughly while the water falls down on them. Matt makes an overwhelmed noise but says, “Please,  _ please _ ,” and wraps his legs around Foggy. 

“Okay, no,” Foggy says, pulling away almost as soon as it happens, shaking his head. “This is a public shower, we’re going to catch a  _ disease _ .” 

“No, stay,” Matt says, digging his heel into Foggy’s back to keep him there.

“I’m not saying no to you anymore, Matt, but we have a perfectly good bed at the end of the hall,” Foggy says. “We even have one that’s not soaked in bodily fluids. Let’s go change that.” 

“ _ Foggy _ ,” Matt says, almost angry, fingers pulling at Foggy’s hair to pull him back into a kiss. Foggy lets him do it for a moment before he pushes Matt back down gently, pinning him to the floor.

“ _ Up _ ,” Foggy says, almost a growl, hoping that the order will be enough to at least get Matt to his feet. Matt stops moving underneath him, and when Foggy stands up and pulls Matt with him, he at least makes some sort of effort to help.

“God, I should have asked Marci to stay,” Foggy says. “I don’t know if I can get you back on my own, you’re all muscle.”  

Matt just shakes his head, wrapping his arms around Foggy and trying to stand upright. 

“I can do it,” he says, nuzzling against Foggy’s neck. His legs are shaking, but he stays up as Foggy does his best to dry them both off with the towel before he wraps it around Matt again. He gets an arm underneath Matt’s to keep him up as they awkwardly shuffle out of the bathroom, with both of them resisting the urge to just tangle up together on the bathroom floor or the hallway on their way back to the dorm. 

At one point, he has to press Matt up against the wall and shove his face into his neck to breathe in a few times before he shakes himself out of it and says, “Shit, okay, like twelve more steps.” 

Inside their dorm, he gets Matt back to the bed and Matt won’t let go of his shirt so he can stand up again, saying, “Foggy, please,” in a soft earnest voice that’s still bordering on anger, so frustrated.

“Wet clothes,” Foggy says, pushing Matt down gently. “Stay. Give me two seconds.” 

Matt lets go, immediately turning onto his hands and knees when Foggy steps away to pull his clothes off and leave them on the floor. As tempting as it is to fuck Matt immediately, he goes for a condom from his desk before he puts a hand on Matt’s shoulder to turn him over again. He crawls back onto the bed and Matt huffs out a breath but goes willingly, spreading his legs so Foggy can kneel between them and pull Matt up into a kiss. 

“Now,” Matt says, a broken frantic chant of it against Foggy’s mouth, “Now, now, please.” 

“Okay, Matty,” he says. “Let me just deal with this condom.”

“Birth control,” Matt says, sharply. “ _ Please.”  _

“If we’re gonna do something this dumb, may as well be smart about it,” Foggy says. “Stay still, Matt.” 

Matt collapses back on the mattress while Foggy puts the condom on, wrapping a leg around Foggy’s back to pull him in when he shuffles closer.

The second he pushes inside of Matt with Matt’s mouth open and gasping under his, it’s sort of like his brain explodes. It’s all chemicals and smells mingling and Matt writhing underneath him, digging his fingers into Foggy’s back.

“Thank you,” Matt gasps, when Foggy gives himself up to it, when he shoves into Matt hard so their bodies are pressed together. He rubs his cheek against Matt’s before he bites at his mouth and starts to fuck him in earnest, hard and fast, because Matt’s wet and open and saying his name.  

“Fuck, oh fuck,” Foggy chokes because Sandra was nothing like this. She wasn’t even close. She wasn’t this hot or this wet. She didn’t pull him this close or dig in this tight. She didn’t open this easy or clench this tight. Her body hadn’t begged for him like Matt’s was, welcomed him in like he should live inside. He could  _ live  _ inside Matt. “You’re taking it so well.”

“Yeah,” Matt says. “I—I need it, Foggy, please.”

“I know, Matty, I know,” Foggy says. “Next time, I’m going to be there from the start, if you want me. We’ll do it together, I’ll make it so good for you.” 

“Want you,” Matt gasps. “Want you to fuck me full, Foggy. Want you everywhere.”

“You’ve got me,” Foggy says, nosing against Matt’s neck before he pulls himself back. Matt makes a broken noise before he reaches a shaky hand up to tangle in Foggy’s hair, pulling him down into a kiss but holding on after they separate. 

He presses his face up into Foggy’s neck, breathes in deep before he opens his mouth to lick over the skin, lets his teeth graze against it. Foggy moans before his brain clears a little and he pins Matt up against the bed to thrust into him hard a couple of times, watching his face. 

“Matt,” Foggy says. “Are you—”

“Fog,” Matt murmurs, reaching for Foggy’s neck to pull him again and talk close to his skin, tightening his legs around him. “Come on.” 

Foggy’s brain short circuits at the feeling of Matt mouthing at his neck, his hips stuttering as he pushes in as far as he can before he covers Matt’s body with his, says, “Yeah, yeah, Matt,” in a voice that he barely recognizes as his own.  

“Can I—” Matt asks, longing making his voice shake in a way the lust and desperation hasn’t this entire time. “Please?”

“Yeah,” Foggy breathes, ducking down to get closer and grinding his hips up against Matt. 

Matt lets out a deep breath against Foggy’s skin before he finds Foggy’s hand to lace their fingers together, squeezing it before he gasps Foggy’s name again and bites down on his neck until he breaks skin. It sends a rush of something like joy through Foggy, makes him shove up even closer and feel his knot growing inside of Matt as he says, “Fuck,  _ fuck _ , Matty.” 

“Please,” Matt gasps again, like it’s one of the only words he has left—please and want and need—as soon as he opens his mouth again. He throws his head back with his bloody mouth open and panting as Foggy kisses his neck and breathes Matt’s scent in deep before he bites down to taste it. 

Matt’s got tears in his eyes when Foggy pulls back to kiss him hard, fingers finding his hips before he’s thrusting shallowly into Matt again and again until they’re locked together and he’s coming with his face pressed up against the mark he left on Matt’s neck. 

Everything goes slow and hazy after he’s finished. He feels like he can’t do anything but nuzzle against Matt’s neck and carefully lick the blood away until he’s clean while Matt whimpers underneath him. 

“You okay?” Foggy murmurs, pulls away enough to get a look at Matt’s face. Matt reaches up to run his fingers over Foggy’s face, tracing the line of his jaw, the bridge of his nose. 

When his fingers are resting on Foggy’s lips, he says, softly, overwhelmed, “I’m great.” 

Foggy settles his weight on top of Matt as comfortably as he can for both of them. Matt wraps shaky arms around him, squirming a little and sending warm sparks shooting through Foggy’s skin as he leans down to kiss Matt. 

It’s slow and comfortable and tired, and soon Matt’s turning his head to yawn.

“Can you sleep like this?” Foggy asks, running fingers through his hair. He doesn’t have a huge dick or anything but still, they’re knotted and this can’t be the most comfortable thing ever.

Matt smiles up at him. 

“’M full, and you’re warm,” he says, voice slow and deep. Foggy keeps petting Matt’s hair as his eyes slip shut, as his breath evens out. It looks like a real sleep, not the weird fitful naps he managed before, Matt’s face slack and pretty. 

They’re going to have a lot to talk about when they wake up, Foggy’s distantly aware of it, but right now Matt’s finally resting, his hole unconsciously clenching every now and then making Matt smile and squirm and let out a little sigh of contentment in his sleep that makes Foggy want to start all over again. Everything smells new, some heady smell that’s both of them that’s filling Foggy up with warmth every time he takes a breath. 

They’ll deal with it when they wake up.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Foggy wakes up to Matt whispering his name, voice wavering. They’d separated last night after his knot went down, waking up for long enough for Foggy to pull out of Matt and Matt to immediately fall asleep again.
> 
> Now, though, Foggy makes an agreeable noise and turns over to wrap an arm around Matt, mumbling his name against his shoulder. Matt sighs softly.
> 
> “I’m sorry,” Matt whispers, stroking his wrist. “I just—I’m—I really need—Foggy, please, I can’t think.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it took me approximately six months to do my edits for this chapter, but we're back!! - returnsandreturns

Foggy wakes up to Matt whispering his name, voice wavering. They’d separated last night after his knot went down, waking up for long enough for Foggy to pull out of Matt and Matt to immediately fall asleep again. 

Now, though, Foggy makes an agreeable noise and turns over to wrap an arm around Matt, mumbling his name against his shoulder. Matt sighs softly.

“I’m sorry,” Matt whispers, stroking his wrist. “I just—I’m—I really need—Foggy, please, I can’t  _ think _ .” 

“Still?” Foggy murmurs sympathetically. For Matt--thoughtful, careful Matt who likes to be able to choose his words and actions with precision--to be out of control in his own brain must be a nightmare. 

“Yeah.”

Breathing in, Foggy is immediately hit by Matt’s smell just as drugging as before and maybe thicker somehow. He rubs his nose against Matt’s cheek and Matt whimpers. “Wow, still. Is that normal? I mean, not to overestimate the restorative powers of my dick or anything, but—”

At the time, he hazily figured that the whole mating bite thing would’ve broken Matt’s heat. He paid very close attention in sex ed and, like, he knew how to use Ask Jeeves like a boss, but now he sits up to see Matt squirming a little underneath him and reaches down to touch his cheek, slides his fingers up to his forehead to feel that it’s hot and damp with sweat. Matt pushes up a little into the touch, shutting his eyes. 

"I don't think it's normal," he admits, "but I just need—" 

He tries to sit up more, and Foggy meets him halfway, presses a soft kiss to Matt's mouth that turns dirty in about a second when Matt parts his lips to moan. Now that Matt’s moaning isn’t desolate and hopeless, it’s officially his new favorite sound

Matt kisses like he’s drowning, gets a hand in Foggy’s hair (and wow was refusing to cut it a good choice; he should congratulate his rebellious, stoner senioritis-having self later when he has more blood flow to his brain) and keeps it there as his other hand moves to shakily try to line Foggy up. Foggy takes the hint and feels around the bed to grab one of the condoms he dropped there and put it on before he positions Matt on his side and fills him up again. Matt makes a long grateful noise, stroking long fingers through his hair as Foggy fucks him and encouraging him with a soft refrain of, “Please _ , please.”  _

Matt’s whole body spasms when Foggy licks over the mark on his neck, sucks on the skin until Matt’s shaking and coming just from the friction of their bodies rubbing together, just from Foggy coming while his knot grows and stretches Matt out again.

Foggy watches Matt’s face as he gasps and blinks, until he starts to look like he’s coming to again. Matt leans forward to nudge their foreheads together and smile. He looks pleased and exhausted as he runs a hand through Foggy’s hair and murmurs, “Hi.”

Being this close to Matt is, like— _ nothing _ he's ever experienced, so much more than sex has ever been, this insane sort of bliss that bypassed intoxicating and went straight to overwhelming the second he tasted Matt's blood in his mouth. It's good that Matt's clearly a cuddle fiend after he gets fucked, at least while he's in heat, because Foggy doesn't feel bad about scenting him and running his hands everywhere and getting as much as he can. 

This might be over after Matt comes back to his senses, after all. He might wake up tomorrow and want to get severed and never talk to him again. Just in case. Foggy's gonna soak it in, memorize the smell of them together, and try not to think too hard about what a baby would look like if it had Matt's eyes and Foggy's nose.

"Hi," he replies, and Matt's smile grows even wider. Foggy shifts to press a kiss to the corner of it, nudge his nose against Matt's cheek before burying his face in his neck again. Matt shudders and sighs.

"This is better," Matt says. "I could probably study like this."

“ _ Bull _ shit,” Foggy says, poking him in the side, and Matt laughs and clenches around Foggy’s knot so both of their laughs slip into lazy moans. 

“Okay, maybe not, but at least I can actually talk to you again,” Matt says, ducking his head. “I missed that.” 

“Well, we’ve got lots to talk about,” Foggy says, “and plenty of time, since I’ve got you kinda trapped here.” 

Matt butts his head up underneath Foggy’s chin for a moment before he raises his head again. 

“We could talk about that essay we still have due next week,” he says, raising his eyebrows like a challenge, and Foggy scoffs. 

"I'll talk us into an extension; I'm gonna be a lawyer," he says. "I refuse to talk about school when I'm literally inside of you and have an actual list of better topics written in my head." 

"A list?" Matt asks, laughing. 

"With bullet points, Murdock," Foggy says. "And footnotes." 

"Wow, footnotes," Matt says. "That's thorough, I'm impressed."

"You should be," Foggy says, punctuating it with a kiss because he can just do that now. He's pretty sure kissing is part of the whole mate thing, which, incidentally—"You want to know what the first item on my list is?"

"I'm afraid to ask. Why don't you jump to two or three and we can work our way back up?" Matt offers.

"Well, you should know that the list gets further away from our hopes and dreams and deeper into our dark and shadowy pasts as it goes on, conversation-wise," Foggy says, smoothing a hand down Matt's back. "Sure you don't want to start at the top?"

“I, uh, I’m not really the best at hopes and dreams,” Matt admits, looking a little more metaphorically trapped now, his mouth twisting into a slight frown before he turns his face away. Foggy could let him off the hook pretty easily, just flirt and joke and not get anywhere, but he's pretty sure that he'd regret missing this opportunity. A warm sex-pleased Matt who can't get a shifty look on his face and come up with an excuse to leave the room when Foggy asks him a question. 

"Got it," Foggy says. "We'll hold off on planning the wedding."

Matt's eyebrows shoot up again, and Foggy laughs.

"I am firmly joking, Murdock," he says even though, maybe, in his own head, he kind of wasn’t. "I do have a question for you, though. About what happened in the shower, when Marci was still there."

“Go ahead,” Matt says, quietly. 

“Wow, that's—I figured you'd be, like, 'Shower? What shower? Marci who?'" Foggy says, and Matt's frowns shifts into something that can't quite decide what it wants to be, face steeled and expectant once it settles down. Definitely nervous. It's a lot easier to read Matt when he's about three inches away from him. "Okay, we're doing this, then. Well, she said that. . .fuck, I can't even imagine, but she said you got so freaked because you thought I wanted to. . .share you?"

Matt shrugs, silent for a long moment before he says, casually, “Yeah, sorry. I know you wouldn’t actually do that to me.” 

Foggy feels horror settle over him at how Matt just shrugs it off, going still, fingers that had been tracing the length of Matt's spine again and again stopping suddenly. 

Matt makes a questioning noise and Foggy asks, as carefully as he can manage, feeling anger quickly replacing horror at the thought, "Has something like that happened to you, Matt?"

Matt shakes his head and Foggy feels like the air has been returned to the room all at once. He maybe thanks Matt’s God and a few other deities he’s learned about over the years that nothing so grotesque ever touched Matt, even if other ugly things have. 

"Like I said," Matt says, "I've only had one heat before this. I spent most of it alone. The orphanage had a heat room. I mean, it wasn't nice or anything. . .” He wrinkles his nose at the memory. “But it was safe."

Foggy wants to tell Matt that he heard what he wasn't saying, heard how much more there was to that probably lovely story, but—there's time for digging. He wasn't lying about the list. He's had it going in the back of his head since about five seconds after he walked in on Matt at the beginning of this weird fucking week. 

“Why would you be worried about that, then?" he asks, trying to pin down what he's missing exactly, how Matt got from point A to a really horrifying point B. He lets his hand start moving again, fingers digging gently into Matt's back so he settles a little and sighs. “I don't—I know you were basically out of your mind, but—I don't get it.”

Matt smiles sweetly at him before he reaches up to push Foggy’s hair away from his face, fingers resting against his jaw. 

“You saw me,” he says. “I couldn’t take a drink of water without fucking myself. Just imagine what someone with less than honorable intentions could do with someone in that state.” 

“Everyone knows that heat-rape happens, but—” Foggy starts, and Matt sighs.

“Yeah, of course, but—there are worse things than heat-rape, Foggy,” he says, carefully. “Sometimes—sometimes, it’s systemic, you know. Within biological families and small communities— it used to happen a lot more often but even now. . .you get an omega in a family with a lot Alphas and real fundamentalist ideals, and—”

Matt draws off, shrugging again.

“Wow,” Foggy says, faintly. 

“Or sometimes money or drugs are involved,” Matt says, “or—there’s a kid I knew, his Alphafriend convinced him that it would help, that he brought his friends in while he was in heat because he  _ loved _ him and then he dumped him and told the whole school he was a slut and showed pictures to prove it.” 

Matt looks a little more mutinous at that, and Foggy rubs gently at his shoulder.  

“I’m just saying, it happens,” Matt says, calmly, an afterthought. “Alphas share sometimes. I think it’s tied in with alpha ownership instincts.”

It's not like Foggy didn't know that bad shit happens, especially to omegas—there's a reason he's tried not to be one of those alphas since he became cognizant of what that could mean, listened to what his parents taught him, to what Sandra had said when they spent that heat together, and tried his hardest to question his own intuition. He thinks it’s why Matt kind of liked him to begin with, before all this. 

But the way Matt says all of it like it’s just normal, a fact of life, like there is any possible reason for that kind of behavior beyond those alphas being horrible people, then shrugs it off and smiles and nuzzles back against Foggy’s neck when he draws off—it makes his stomach drop. 

“Matt,” he says. “I didn’t—I mean, I’ve heard stories, but I didn’t realize— _ shit _ .”

He hesitates for a second before he pulls Matt into more of a hug, moving carefully so he doesn’t hurt him when he wraps his arms around him. Those are things you hear on the news, rumors that people whisper about what goes on in frat houses, but he’s never had to think about it much past that. Matt clearly doesn’t get that luxury. Foggy is coming to the realization that it’s likely no omega does.

“I might be biased,” Matt admits, curling a little smaller to rub his cheek against Foggy’s chest. “I—you know how I grew up, the stuff that can happen in the system. Kids like us—see things. Or hear them, in my case. I really meant it when I said I knew that you wouldn’t do that, I was just scared and confused and my animal brain kicked in for a bit. That’s all.” 

Matt laughs a little, his voice soft and reassuring, and he practically melts in Foggy’s arms. Foggy can feel him breathe in deep with his face pressed up against Foggy’s shoulder now, making a pleased noise. Foggy wants to hear him make that noise forever, buries a hand in Matt's hair and scratches at his scalp and smiles when he succeeds in recreating it.

Pretty sure the forever part falls firmly under hopes and dreams, somewhere around kids and white picket fences and thousands of heats spent making Matt feel good instead of just helping him survive it.

Matt shifts when Foggy starts to soften in him and Foggy lets go of him so Matt can roll onto his back, stretching out with a low moan, his face twisting up as his bones crack. He settles on the bed for a few minutes before he asks, “Hey, Foggy?”

“Hmm?” Foggy asks.

“I think—I think it’s starting again,” Matt says, voice breaking before he adds, a confession in an exhausted whisper, “I don’t know how much longer I can do this.” 

Foggy sits up at that, pulling Matt with him. This was supposed to make things better but Matt is still struggling and miserable and he hates it.

"You know, I was feeling pretty good about the plan of fucking you through this once we got into it, but I'm pretty sure I should get you to the clinic at this point," he says, running his thumb over Matt's cheek to wipe away a couple of stray tears. “I’ll help you get cleaned up if you think you can make the walk with me.”

“You have to make sure that I don’t embarrass myself in the waiting room,” Matt says.

“I’ll do my best,” Foggy says, smiling and smoothing Matt’s hair down.

“I’m  _ serious _ ,” Matt says, desperately, grabbing Foggy’s wrist. “I don’t—I don’t know who will be there, and there’s a lot of people at this school that I wouldn’t want to see me like this.” 

“Most of them, I’d imagine,” Foggy says. “I’ll help you, Matt, I promise.” 

Matt seems to listen to the silence that follows, head tilted towards Foggy, before he nods.

“Thanks,” he murmurs. “For—everything.”

Instead of replying, Foggy pulls Matt into his arms again, partially to comfort him but mostly because Matt smells  _ amazing _ . It’s strong and new and Foggy’s basically drunk on it, rubbing his face up against Matt’s until Matt’s fingers are digging into his back and he’s saying, “Foggy, I’m—I need—”

“Shit,” Foggy says. “Sorry. One more go?” 

“ _ Yeah _ ,” Matt says, quiet and determined, pushing Foggy down gently to crawl on top of him.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OH HEY WE'RE BACK

After they finish again, Matt’s a little more clear-headed. He’s even able to respond to Foggy’s offers to clean him up with a washcloth and help him into loose clothes with complete, complex sentences. Foggy is very proud of both of them for handling this shitstorm so calmly and maturely.  

The idea of navigating several flights of stairs when they’re both pretty fucked out and boneless was too harrowing for them to physically handle, but Foggy still kind of regrets taking the elevator downstairs. Small space, everything trapped in and narrowed, Matt clinging to him out of a mix of necessity and clearly just wanting to get close enough to smell Foggy’s hair or something. 

The whole thing has his dick raging back to life, bringing with it a lust that’s not same hunger as a rut but boy, howdy, is it in the same ballpark. Like, he has to remind himself a couple times why,  _ exactly,  _ it is that they can’t fuck in an elevator because his lizard brain and his knot both think it’s a goddamn brilliant plan. They would not be the first students to do that, but they— _ cannot _ fuck in an elevator. That’s the kind of thing that gets written up in the student newspaper.

“Keep it in your pants,” he advises, gently, laughing at the look that Matt gives him.

“Don't laugh at me right now," Matt groans. 

Foggy laughs again then shakes his head. “I swear to God, I was talking to myself. You’re not the only one in this metal box with malfunctioning impulse control.”

Matt frowns at that. “This isn't funny.”

“Yeah, it’s a shitty coping mechanism,” Foggy says, tightening the arm he has wrapped around Matt’s waist, so Matt turns a little to get closer. It’s kind of like a hug, something they could pass off as normal, only Matt’s also panting and starting to subtly rub up against him. “God, Matty, is it already happening again?”

“Yes,” Matt murmurs, sadly. “Can't you smell it?”

Foggy can, he—he definitely absolutely can. It's not just arousal because Matt's been turned on for the last few solid days but this? This is the smell of slick is thicker and more pungent. It's like huffing paint almost - not that he huffs paint. He was on the prom decorating committee in high school and they didn’t open the windows when they made the banners is all. “Listen, I know I’m an asshole and everything but I was serious, Matt. You’re kind of scrambling my brain. ”

“I should've—” Matt’s face twists into something almost like panic. “I should go back to the room.”

“That's not an option and you know it. Listen, we can do this. We've just got to make it a few blocks.”

“We  _ smell _ mated. If we see someone we know—they're going to ask," Matt says, anxiously, as they get to the door and out into the sunlight.

Foggy takes a deep breath of fresh air, feeling his head clear a little. He can smell things other than the scent Matt rightly called  _ mated _ . There’s grass and car exhaust and, weirdly, barbecue chicken wings out here which help balance him out. The variation and relief is enough to give him the cognitive control he needs to be reassuring. 

“Then we politely tell them to fuck off,” he says, as brightly as he can, “and keep walking. Come on, Matt.”  He presses an impulsive kiss to Matt’s temple before he drags him down the sidewalk. 

Matt stumbles and groans again, louder and way throatier this time. 

“You’ve gotta stop that,” he murmurs.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Foggy says. He’s got to be the level-headed one here or they’re never going to make it across campus. That means he really has to ignore  _ most _ of his impulses right now, even if his body’s really telling him that he needs to keep Matt safe by keeping him close and hidden and well-kissed. He’s got to keep Matt safe by actually getting him help. 

He can do this. He’s still got a working brain somewhere up there.

Matt’s obviously trying really hard to be good as they make the slow walk towards the clinic, but he keeps stopping to try to pull Foggy close, to get his fingers in his hair or under his shirt. The smell is getting stronger and combined with the way he’s touching Foggy, they are going to have a  _ problem _ .

“I can't,” Matt finally chokes out, his knees giving out. Only Foggy's arms around him keep him from hitting the ground. “Foggy. Foggy, please, I can't. I need— _ help _ me.” 

“I know, I know,” Foggy soothes, “but we’re so close, Matt, you just need to wait a little bit longer.”

Matt tries to stand up again, digs his fingers into Foggy’s arm and pulls, but this time, his strength fails him and he just sinks down heavily against him a moment later. He makes a low, miserable noise, something harsh and humiliated, pulled from his throat when Foggy hefts him closer to keep him off the ground.

“Can’t wait. Sorry, sorry.  _ I’m sorry _ . I can’t,” Matt says, nosing against the mark he left on Foggy’s neck last night before his mouth finds it, which—is  _ unfair _ . Definitely not allowed here, Matt’s tongue licking sweat off of his neck. 

“Matt,” he says, as firmly as he can manage, not that surprised when it doesn’t come out as a breathy moan. It’s the best he’s got. When Matt stills but doesn’t take his mouth away, Foggy reaches up to pull him away by his hair, as carefully as he can, just one sharp tug so Matt whines. 

“Sorry,” he says, again.

God, Matt has to know how well that’s working because he wants to fuck Matt on the sidewalk in broad daylight. 

“ _ I’m _ sorry,” Foggy says, “but I’m trying to do what you asked, and I’m pretty sure that me fucking you on the sidewalk in broad daylight would qualify as embarrassing.”

“Don't care,” Matt groans. 

“Sure, right now. That’s the heat talking,” Foggy says. 

“Maybe you should listen to it,” Matt shoots back, and Foggy barks out a surprised laugh.

“He’s got jokes,” he says, somewhat hysterically. 

“ _ Foggy _ ,” Matt says. “Please. ”

He tilts his head up to press a kiss to Foggy’s mouth, almost chaste given the circumstances but it still makes Foggy’s head spin. By the time their lips part, it’s way too late for them both.

“Oh god, we’re gonna get arrested,” he groans, looking around desperately. 

There’s a little thicket of trees in the corner of one of the quads close by that’s popular with couples, not private but as close as they’ll get in this, the very definition of desperate times and desperate measures. He drags Matt to it while Matt kisses and nips at his neck, not helping at all until his back is up against a tree. 

“C’mon,” Matt breathes, squirming in Foggy’s arms until he can turn around and brace himself against the tree.

Foggy spares one last glance around before he groans again and gives in, unzipping his fly just enough so he can fuck Matt, shallow and careful. He still ends up pressing him up against the tree with every thrust—Matt’s going to have scrapes on his face, and Foggy’s a terrible person because he doesn’t hate the idea, pink marks on Matt’s cheek to match the red mark on his neck, more things to brand Matt as  _ his _ . 

“Matty,” he murmurs. 

It's a supreme act of willpower not to knot Matt and trap them out in the open, but he manages to stop with a fist tight around the base, keeping them from locking. He still comes inside Matt, all his good intentions with condoms be damned, and Matt bites off a scream into his shoulder. God, there’s no way that nobody saw them. It’s the middle of the day. They’re in so much trouble. 

For his part, once he stops coming, Matt seems to go slack. The come dripping out of Matt after they break apart doesn’t help their ‘two friends out on a stroll’ act but he can walk again, which is hopefully enough.

It has to be. It has to get them all the way to the clinic.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dancinbutterfly here! this chapter was 100% my fault when this started. so not sorry. not. at all. i betcha some of you guys have waited for this specific chapter for awhile. why? 2 words: therapeutic. fisting. also, anyone who can spot the hamilton quote gets all the cookies cuz it's super subtle.

*

It’s a lot of foot dragging and mumbled encouragement and trying to pass off bodily lugging Matt along as some kind of friendly stroll when people pass them, but they manage it before Matt gets too deep into it again. That’s a minor miracle—he’ll have to ask Matt if Catholics have a patron saint of getting out of embarrassing situations—considering he broke in about five seconds the last time and basically all Matt had to do was say please. Foggy’s not sure how well he’s going to keep his promise about not embarrassing themselves in the waiting room.

As soon as the receptionist at the desk gets a look at them, she winks at Foggy and passes over a clipboard.

“Fill this out,” she says, “and a nurse will be with you as soon as possible.”

“Could you maybe rush that?” Foggy asks.

She looks at Matt for a moment too long, gazing starting assessing before sliding into hungry. Foggy glares at her, tugging Matt closer.

“As soon as possible,” she repeats, smiling wider.

Foggy helps Matt into a chair before he hands him the clipboard and puts an arm around Matt’s shoulder, hand curled around his arm possessively.

“Uhm, I can’t—"

Then he looks down and sees that it’s just a regular paper form.

"You don't have this in a more accessible format, do you? Braille, maybe?" Foggy asks. "I mean, you can see that he's blind, right?"

The receptionist exhales through her nose but it’s still audible. "I'm sure you can fill it out for him."

"You know, that's technically a violation of the Americans with Disabilities Act." Foggy clenches out with gritted teeth and decides to blame his desire to deck her on his Alpha instincts, and not on her total lack of customer service skills and basic human goddamn compassion. “Thanks.”

"I can call for one," she says lazily, "But that will take longer. I thought you were in a rush." She sniffs the air and grins at him."You smell like you're in a rush."

Matt is his best friend, his fucking _mate_ so he has a veritable firestorm ready to unleash on her ranging on topics from what an obvious tourist she washer in Manhattan to the way her parents raised her to her terrible color pallet from her obnoxiously porno pink scrunchie to her milky pastel scrubs.  
  
Unfortunately, he manages is a sharply pointed finger and say calmly, but firmly, “Listen, bitch-

His arm is yanked, hard, before he can finish the thought. “It's fine," Matt hisses, almost angry. That's an improvement actually. Angry Matt is coherent. Coherent Matt is someone who can hold his own, on his own. That Matt doesn't need Foggy to keep his shit together.

Fuck. Foggy needs to keep his shit together.

"It’s really not,” Foggy says, but he starts to fill out the form anyway, hitting all the information that he knows without having to ask. Matt's fingers dig in harder. They might leave bruises. Foggy glares.

"I'm glaring at you right now."

"I can live with that," Matt says before going positively limp with relief.

Foggy turns to the knothead graduate assistant. "But I'm writing a firmly worded complaint on the clinic webpage about this."

"You do that," she practically purrs

“It’s fine,” Matt repeats, beginning to pet Foggy’s arm like it’s a cat, with the hair there and never against. “It’s nothing new. I just want to get through this,” Matt says, turning to lean over the arm of his chair enough to rest his head on Foggy’s shoulder, yawning. It’s innocent enough—Matt just rubs his cheek against him slightly, more comforting than anything else.

“If you say so,” Foggy says, darkly. “What’s your social?”

Matt reels off the number, squirming a little in his chair. It must be starting again so Foggy asks about primary care doctors and insurance and other banal questions as quickly as he can before he runs the form back up to the receptionist.

she breathes deep and grins at him.

"Your boy smells good."

"My boy smells like mine,” Foggy says, shortly, hating her more now that her scrub shirt has adjusted can see the tag declares her to be a graduate student assistant. Abuse of privilege is one of the many reasons why he wants to go to law school after he gets his bachelor’s.

"New, though." She glances down at the paper. "And eighteen. Accidental bonding, huh?" She smirks. "Yeah. We see a two or three of those every semester."

"Rush this," Foggy growls, "or, so help me, I will report you for sexual harassment. I’m an Alpha. They’ll listen."

"Calm down, big boy." She holds up her hands. "I didn't put my hands on your pet, did I? See." She puts Matt’s clipboard on top of a stack of clipboards. "Newlymates. Priority 1. Oh." She points her finger to the right, over Foggy's shoulder, "And the little Alpha's room is over there. You know. If _;nature_ calls."

He glares at her for a moment longer before Matt groans his name out behind him, and Foggy turns back to see him digging his fingers into his knees, curling in on himself.

“Sounds like you’re needed,” she says, and he ignores her to go back to Matt, dropping down into the chair and grabbing one of his hands to lace their fingers together.

“Just a little while longer, buddy,” he says. “Is it at least getting weaker?”

“Stronger,” Matt says, shaking his head.

Fuck. There are several other people scattered through the waiting room, and he can feel the receptionist’s eyes on them without even looking up. He feels like his skin’s too tight, like he needs to snap or yell or fuck or do _something_.

When Matt tries to get closer, use the hand that Foggy’s holding for leverage to maybe get into his lap, Foggy says, low and sharp, “ _No_ , Matt.”

Matt sits back down automatically.

Obedience that ready makes Foggy dizzy right down to his guts, his inner animal practically roaring with pleasure. Seeing Matt Murdock do what he’s told, when he’s told, without even asking any questions? That’s so terrifying that it pulls him back from an abyss that is too much like rut for comfort and makes himself speak gently and stay rationally.

“You can wait,” Foggy continues, forcing himself to be sane for both their sakes. “For me.”

He hates talking to Matt like this, hates that the tone that makes Matt sit back and look drugged and dizzy comes so naturally, but they’re so close and he swore to Matt that he would protect him, as his Alpha and as his friend, from this exact scenario.

"Please don't ask me to," Matt hisses, dropping his head on Foggy's shoulder again after a long moment, turning to bite down gently before he continues, hushed and desperate, "You don't know—you don’t know what this _feels_ like. It was hollowness before but now it’s like I’m scraped empty. . I need something in side me, Foggy, and nothing’s felt as good as you. I- Please. I—need you to touch me.”

“I made you a promise, Matt,” Foggy says, curling a hand around the back of Matt’s neck to squeeze it lightly, “and now I need _you_ to promise _me_ that you’ll hold on until we talk to a nurse.”

Matt lets out a huff of breath against Foggy’s shoulder before he whispers, “I don’t know if I can.”

“You can,” Foggy says. “I know you can. You’re the strongest person I know, Matt. Just be good for me.”

Matt pushes his forehead against Foggy's shoulder. “I want to be.”

‘You already are. So you got this.”  
  
Five minutes stretch on for an eternity of them breathing together before Matt starts making small pained noises into his shoulder.

"Should've worn the plug,” Matt grumbles, like he’s complaining about the minimum word count of an essay and not the state of his sex organs. “This is torture."

Not so much for Foggy as it was for Matt but yeah. Torture sounded about right. "That's why we're here," Foggy soothes, running his hand through Matt's hair. "We're going to fix this. "

"Murdock?" A voice calls from a doorway and Foggy believes in Matt's God for possibly the first time ever.

“See?” he says, nudging Matt’s shoulder. “Come on, Murdock.”

Matt’s legs barely hold him up, and he lets out a stuttered, involuntary moan when Foggy wraps his arms around him to haul Matt to his feet again. Over Matt’s shoulder, the receptionist smiles at Foggy, and he glares back.

“You’re mad, why are you—” Matt says, sounding hesitant.

“It’s not you, buddy,” Foggy murmurs back. “Let’s go, one foot in front of the other.”

Matt holds himself up enough that he can kind of shuffle with him, draped all over Foggy as they make the walk past the desk under a certain too-watchful eye that’s getting fucking _< i>reported<i>_.

"Right this way, gentlemen," an older woman with a kind voice, says, gesturing them towards an examination room. "So, the nurse practitioner will be right with you. So, Mr. Murdock, you can just get up on the table."

"You're not staying?" Matt asks, desperate.

"Afraid not."

And with that, their guide is gone.

"They said it'll just be a few minutes, bud," Foggy says, going for consoling, taking Matt's cane from him and folding it up.

"No—that's not what they said. They said shortly. They said _shortly_. I was in the hospital for a long time after my accident, Foggy, shortly could mean— _hours_.”

"It won't."

“You don’t _know_ that,” Matt says, shifting where he’s sitting, voice caught between sharp and miserable. Foggy probably shouldn’t touch him. It’ll make it worse, if Foggy touches him, but also this room is small and Matt smells perfect and—yeah, Foggy touches him, steps up to stand in front of Matt and rest his hands on his knees.

“Just awhile longer, Matt,” he says, voice low and careful, “and I’ll take you home and do some really, really good things to you.”

Matt dips forward to wrap his arms around Foggy’s neck and shove his face into his hair. Matt’s shaking all over again, worse this time, breath coming fast and panicky; Foggy can feel it all the way through him.

"Please," Matt sighs, close to his ear. "Just your fingers. No one can see us here."

"The nurse could come in any minute."

"I really don’t care.”

"You do. Sane Matt cares a lot."

"Sane Matt will understand," Matt promises. "I'm so wet, Foggy. Don't you—don’t you want to?”

“Buddy,” Foggy says, breathing in deep because he has a death wish, “You have no idea.”

“They’ll understand,” Matt says. “Just—until we hear someone coming, and then we stop.”

“Matt. . .”

“Is this less discrete than what happened earlier?” Matt asks, shoving forward so he’s barely on the table at all, clinging to Foggy. “Foggy. Foggy, I need it.”

That’s almost a legitimate point. Foggy takes another deep breath, and it goes straight to his head, makes it seem completely okay to let his fingers slide up Matt’s thighs. Matt spreads his legs with a sigh, so Foggy’s standing between them when he reaches up to kiss Matt just to taste him.

“Not fair,” Matt says, brokenly, chasing Foggy’s mouth when he pulls away. “Okay, so we’re doing this?”

“We’re doing this,” Foggy replies, nudging his forehead against Matt’s before he gently shoves him. Matt makes a low, grateful noise and moves to lay down on his back, raising his hips up so Foggy can see just how wet he actually is.

“Please,” Matt murmurs, arching his back a little more. Foggy steps in to pull his sweats down and push two fingers into Matt without warning so Matt lets out a desperate yelp then says, “Yeah, yeah, more.”

Three fingers and Matt says, again, “ _More_.”

 _God_. Foggy's never actually done _more_ before. _More_ is a line that he has never actually crossed with anyone before. Girls are usually good with some serious oral and guys, well, his experience is limited there and he's only been with omega guys before and only once and only in heat and then it was just fuck and go. So. He's really not sure. He's seen porn but—this is _Matt_. "I think more might be risky."

“I can take it,” Matt says, moving his hips in earnest, fucking himself on Foggy’s fingers. “I’m supposed to take be full. I need it. Please, just—”

“Just more?” Foggy asks, after Matt draws off with a grunt and doesn’t finish.

“Yeah,” Matt breathes.

“Alright, okay, tell me if it hurts too much,” Foggy says, nervously, smoothing his hand over Matt’s chest, tucking his fingers together to push in a fourth one. The noise Matt makes is beautiful and loud, too loud in this tiny sterile room, with people on the other side of the wall.

“More,” Matt murmurs, again, clearly slipping back towards non-verbal with Foggy’s fingers buried inside of him.

“ _More_?” Foggy asks. “Matt.”

“It’s not enough,” Matt says with the same kind of frank, frustrated determination he had whenever he was having trouble with something but couldn’t leave it be. “Need you.”And has if that wasn’t enough to get the point across, the clenching of those slippery smooth muscles inside his hole around his fingers were bordering on frantic.

Foggy takes another breath, shakier. Then, he shoves his fingers in further until the tip of his thumb can slip inside of Matt, too.

The noise Matt makes is guttural and downright primal. It's the same one he made when he took Foggy's knot the first time and that’s how he knows, even though this seems completely insane, that this is right. He carefully curls his fingers down into a fist and rocks them against Matt's prostate. Matt grabs at Foggy's neck, clawing and desperate but also loose and relaxed like he wasn’t before.

"Yes. Yeah, Foggy, _yeah_. There. There. Stay stay stay, ugh, fuck, God, Christ." Then Matt is coming on his shirt.

Foggy is stunned at how beautiful Matt is when he's blasphemous and coming. He's a sweaty mess of bliss. His neck is corded, the scabbing bond bite standing out against pale skin.

"Better?" Foggy whispers. He's hard but it's weirdly not urgent. It should be but it isn't.

"No. Yes. I'm not-" Matt sobs. "Please don’t—just stay there, okay?"

"Okay," Foggy soothes. He rubs his free hand, Jesus the one not inside Matt to the fucking _wrist_ , in small circles on his hip, hoping to ground him. "I'm not going anywhere."

And of course, that’s when the door opens. A feminine voice sighs and Omega scent floods the room. "Well. Clearly we've got a situation on our hands here, don't we, gentlemen?"

**Author's Note:**

> MORE TO COME. You can follow dancinbutterfly [here](http://dancinbutterfly.tumblr.com) and returnsandreturns [here](http://returnsandreturns.tumblr.com). <3 Feel free to ask questions or make comments or whatever about the world building/future stuff for the Boxes verse? We love that shit. More than is healthy probably.


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